


Tramps Like Us

by PVB



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Marching Band, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Bisexual Lance (Voltron), Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Female Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Gay Keith (Voltron), Gay crisis, Homophobia, Hunk (Voltron) is so Pure, Keith (Voltron) is Bad at Feelings, M/M, Past Abuse, Sassy Pidge | Katie Holt, So many band instruments, So much Bruce Springsteen, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Stop calling Shiro Daddy, Voltron Group Chat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:25:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 98,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13097172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PVB/pseuds/PVB
Summary: “Do you play guitar?” Lance asks, holding up the pick.“Yeah,” Keith replies.“Are you good?”“Yeah.”“Are you just saying you’re good, or are you actually good?”“Actually good,” Keith says defensively. “And why do you care anyway?”Lance narrows his eyes at him. “I don’t know if I believe you.”“I’ll prove it,” Keith says before he can think.(High school marching band/Battle of the Bands AU. Keith is the new kid, Lance is trying to prove himself, Pidge is a musical prodigy, Hunk’s tired of stereotypes, Shiro and Allura are just trying to get people to stop calling them ‘Mom’ and ‘Dad’, and Bruce Springsteen is still the Boss. Don’t ask about the lions.)





	1. Soft Infested Summer

**Author's Note:**

> What's up ya'll; haven't done this in a while but this story would not leave me alone so I guess we're doing this shit. Gonna try to update every week and a half or so, but we'll see how that goes!
> 
> Title for the chapter comes from 'Backstreets' by Bruce Springsteen; title for the story comes from 'Born to Run' by the same.

Keith hates band camp.

  
This is not a surprise to anyone. Keith's been playing the trumpet since he was seven years old; there are pictures of him in dorky band uniforms ranging a full decade, a timeline of Keith's life from chubby cheeks to growth spurts to bad, bad acne, where the only constant between pictures is the trumpet in his hand. He can play an E flat scale in his sleep and he has recordings of Sousa on his phone that he genuinely listens to. He's a full-fledged band geek at this point.

  
And yet, when he is forced to talk to strangers and tell them that he's in band, he always gets an "Oh, really?" With a raised eyebrow and a chuckle. People see the leather jacket and motorcycle and shitty attitude and figure that this kid cannot be in band for the love of it. The most common theories he gets are 1) he's there to impress a girl, 2) he's there to mollify his dad, or 3) he's there to fuck around and smoke joints under the bleachers.

  
They're wrong about most of that, not that he ever tries to defend his love of band to anybody. But there are things he does hate. Shakos, for one. _Flight of the Bumblebees_. The general cheesiness of all bands.

  
Band camp. He hates band camp most of all.

  
His dad offers to drive him to camp, which would save him on gas. But he declines. It's bad enough that he's the new kid as a junior; he's got a panic scenario of all the other kids driving themselves and him showing up in his dad's old Ford like a loser who can't drive. He knows that's not gonna happen, but it doesn't stop him from panicking about it in the middle of the night. Plus, you know, two hours alone in a car with his dad is an entirely different type of nightmare.

  
His dad just nods when Keith tells him he'll drive himself. It's a little bit disappointed, a little bit resigned, like he knew there was no way Keith was going to take him up on it. Which kinda hurt, Keith can admit that. Family bonding has been at an all-time low in the Kogane household lately.

  
The downside to his dad not driving him is that he has to take his motorcycle, which has just enough room for his duffel bag and trumpet case. There's no room at all for his guitar. _It's fine_ , Keith tells himself as he packs. _This isn't Boy Scout camp. Nobody's going to want to sit around the fire and play guitar. Don't be a dork._

  
Still – a whole week of social interaction with new people in a new place, in the already cutthroat world of competitive marching band? His guitar would be a welcome distraction, even if it did make him look like a complete loser.

  
Keith puts on his helmet and starts the long ride to the UC Irvine campus for Garrison High Band Camp.

 

* * *

 

"Dude," Hunk says, "is that new kid riding in on a _motorcyle?"_

  
Before Hunk said anything, Lance's strategy for this band camp was to completely ignore any new kids. He's a junior; he's going to be at least third chair trumpet, if not second behind Kolivan; he's finally got enough friends that he doesn't need to hang around the upperclassmen looking for someone to indulge him. It's a fairly cool day in late August, some sea breeze coming in off the coast, and Lance is sprawled over a sunny bench with his eyes closed, listening to the sounds of band camp; drummers off in the corner clicking their sticks, Allura's soothing Mom Voice talking to some scared freshman, Pidge humming under her breath as she polishes her saxophone for the twelve millionth time.

But Hunk just said 'motorcycle'. So Lance sits straight up.

"Did you just say that a freshman is riding a motorcycle?"

  
Hunk points. Coming up the parking lot in between the mom vans and little sedans is a scarlet red motorcycle, engine loud and rumbling in the morning calm. Pretty much everybody is staring as he rumbles his way up to registration, thick black helmet obscuring his whole face.

  
"There's no way that's someone we know," Lance says. "What freshman is cool enough to ride a motorcycle?"

  
"It can't be a freshman, Lance, you have to be sixteen to get a motorcycle license," Hunk says. "He's at least a sophomore."

  
"Or she," Pidge chirps.

  
"Definitely not a she," Lance says, as New Kid finally parks the bike and takes off the helmet. Underneath is a guy with a whole lot of black hair, wearing black jeans and boots and red leather jacket, a scowl that Lance tries not to find so attractive.

  
Then he puts up the kickstand, turns around, and pulls out a duffel bag and a trumpet case.

  
"Mother _fucker,_ " Lance says under his breath.

  
Hunk scoffs. Pidge looks up in confusion, catches sight of the trumpet case, and says, "Ooooooh, you got yourself a buddy, Lance."

  
"Fuck you," he says absentmindedly. This kid plays trumpet? This new, older, hot, motorcycle-riding guy plays trumpet? Is nothing sacred? "Why do all the assholes play trumpet?"

  
"Speaking on behalf of the assholes, Lance, why don't you explain?" Hunk says, and then high-fives with Pidge.

  
Lance is too distracted to even react to the burn. New Kid is doing a fantastic job of not making eye contact with anybody, though it looks like people are too intimidated to try. He walks up to Allura and checks in, getting his dorm key for the week, schedule, and an absolutely dorky nametag made out of paper plates that nobody older than 14 is going to wear until Allura forces them to.

  
Lance knows he's overreacting, okay, he gets it. It's just...he thought this year was finally going to be his year to be cool. Queer lanky Cuban kid, the odds have always been against him. He's always been the tag-along, the one hanging out with the older kids and laughing too loudly at their jokes, pretending not to be hurt that he never got invited anywhere. Hunk and Pidge don't care about this stuff like he does, but that's because they've got other stuff – Hunk with his engineering, Pidge with her musical prodigy life. Lance has marching band, and Voltron, and maybe swim team, but that's it. And all the asshole trumpet players finally graduated last year, and he's gotten pretty good at trumpet if he does say so himself. So he thought maybe for junior year he'd finally be the cool upperclassman, the showy trumpet, the one who would attract hordes of starry-eyed freshman, and they'd win state and then they'd win Rockfest and then he'd be the _shit._

  
Except you can't compete with a fucking _motorcycle._

  
New Kid immediately heads off to his dorm, doesn't even try to talk to anybody. After a few minutes Shiro, the senior drumline captain, comes up to talk to Allura, and they start herding people to their dorms. Lance hefts up his stuff and sidles up to Allura as they walk across the quad.

  
"Here I was thinking you couldn't get any hotter, but like the sun, darling, you keep burning."

  
"All summer and that's all you could come up with?" She says with a roll of her eyes. "I expected better."

  
"It'll come back to me, don't worry. Tell me about the new kid."

  
"Lance is jealous that he plays trumpet," Pidge pipes up.

  
"Shut up, Pidgeon. Allura, come on!"

  
"His name is Keith and he's perfectly nice," Allura says. "I'll not have you making fun of him. We don't get enough upperclassmen who join. If I hear that you're mean to him I won't play on Voltron this year."

  
Lance gasps and presses a hand to his heart. "Allura! You wouldn't!"

  
She wouldn't; for all that Allura gives off a Queen Bee vibe, with her gorgeous dark skin and white-blonde hair and Instagram-worthy fashion sense, she's an absolutely huge music dork like the rest of them. It's why she's never gone out for drum major, even though she's overqualified; she loves playing too much to possibly give up her piccolo. And when she's in Voltron, she absolutely _rocks out._

  
"Promise me, Lance! And you two, I know how you can be!"

  
Hunk holds up a hand. "Scouts honor, Mom."

  
"I am not your mother," she says sternly, and then betrays that by giving them each a kiss on the cheek. "Talk to some freshmen too!"

  
This time it's Pidge, not Lance, who rolls her eyes. "Yeah, right."

  
They stop first in the practice room, a massive underground space normally used by the UC marching band, but rented out by Garrison High for band camp this week, along with the dorms and cafeteria. Lance drops off his beaten-up trumpet case, Hunk puts down his trombone and scours the room to make sure they brought his favorite tuba, and Pidge has to be coerced to leave her precious saxophone. Lance and Hunk head into the guys' dorm to drop off the rest of their bags, where Allura put them as roommates because she's a goddess. Then they walk over to the cafeteria for lunch, sun streaming around them. Lance starts to get itchy between his shoulders, cracking his neck and grinning uncontrollably. He's spent the entire summer lifeguarding at his sleepy neighborhood pool and babysitting his younger siblings; marching band season is his heyday, and he's ready to fucking play.

  
And if he stares at New Kid all throughout lunch, nobody needs to know.

  
Because after that is the first practice, and he'll be in the same section as New Kid. He'll find out everything he needs to know then.

 

* * *

 

Keith's never met a band instructor like Coran.

  
Back at his old school, the band instructor was a retired military drill sergeant who once made some kid cry because his shoes weren't shined to perfection. Keith arrives at the band room ten minutes early with his trumpet already out and tuned. Except kids roll in casually, laughing and joking, shouting to be heard over the sound of their instruments. He creeps in the corner until he can figure out what section the trumpets are in, and then once he sees enough of them he walks quickly over and takes a random seat. He could ask the extremely friendly piccolo – Allura – but he's not good at asking for things, so he just takes care of it himself. He meets a couple of the other kids, nothing more than a "Hey, I'm Keith". It's too loud to really talk, and Keith's not complaining.

  
One trumpet comes in wildly late, pulling his horn out of the case just as the instructor walks in. He's a tall guy with a red moustache and a cravat. Keith blinks stupidly as the kids all start cheering.

  
"And a happy end of summer to you too!" Coran shouts over the noise. He's got a weird accent, like Australian or New Zealand or something. "What a fine, upstanding group of young humans! And Pidge, of course."

  
The room bursts out in laughter, and a tiny girl with a tenor sax and huge glasses sticks her tongue out at Coran and plays a fart-like noise on her sax.

  
"Thank you for that, Number Five," Coran replies grandly. (Number Five? Is Coran his first name or his last name? Keith understands _nothing_.) "Alright ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Garrison High band camp. I am so excited to see all your bright, shining faces. We are defending state champions - " The room cheers again. "That's right! And we're going to repeat it again!"

  
More cheers. Keith looks around. It's a bigger band than his last one, all arranged in a cavernous underground space with noise cancelling pads on the walls and trophies for UC marching band all along the walls. It's a standard arrangement; flutes and clarinets in the first row, closest to Coran; saxes in the second row; trumpets and mellos in the third; trombones and bari saxes next; and then in the back row, one side for the tubas and one side for the drumline, crammed together in a block.

  
"For those of you who are new, my name is Coran and I am honored to be your instructor. Of course, giving credit where credit is due, we have absolutely wonderful student leadership, without whom we would all be utterly lost! First of all, allow me to represent Rolo and Nyma, your drum majors!”

  
A guy and girl alongside Coran wave and receive a smattering of polite applause. The late trumpet – a lanky kid with short brown hair – nudges his neighbor and whispers something under his breath.

  
“Next, your section leaders, who you all hopefully have met. For the flutes and piccolos, the lovely Allura Altea – “

  
Allura stands up and waves her piccolo, and everyone whoops, way louder for her than for their drum majors.

  
“For the clarinets, Miss Shay Balmera – “

  
A tall girl waves from her seat.

  
“At the saxes, the incomparable Pidge Holt.”

  
Pidge lifts her saxophone in the air and the brown-haired trumpet player boos loudly. When Coran’s back is turned, Pidge gives him a graceful middle finger over her shoulder.

  
“For the trumpets, Master Kolivan – “

  
A tall, stern-faced guy waves an awkward hand. He did introduce himself to Keith; he seems equally awkward, which is encouraging.

  
“Low brass will be handled by the Lady Hira.”

  
A girl with a shock of short pink hair waves to the room.

  
“And finally, your percussion section leader, Takashi Shirogane!”

  
The room erupts in spontaneous chants of ‘Shi-ro! Shi-ro!’ The man in question – a really tall, really buff senior with a scar over his nose and a splash of white in his black hair – salutes good-naturedly. The chanting is getting to cult-like levels; this guy must be the absolute hero of this band.

  
Keith’s having a really hard keeping up. Section leaders at his old band were there to fix the flip folders, help the new kids with tuning, and occasionally perform in ensembles, not get cheered like NBA players. How can a band this dysfunctional actually be defending state champions?

  
Coran waves the section leaders down. “While they’re collecting music, everyone tune to Shay.”

  
Shay adjusts her clarinet and plays a middle C. Soon the room is filled with the noise of a whole band, everyone adjusting their instruments and fiddling with gears. Kollivan walks around and distributes sheet music.

  
“Alright friends, we’ve got a fantastic field show for you this year. After last year’s rousing Lady Gaga success – “ _Lady Gaga?_ Keith thinks. _Get me out now._ “We’ve decided to go a bit old school. This year it’s time for a Queen medley!”

  
More cheers and whoops. “You know what that means,” the brown-haired trumpet says, propping the music up on a stand. “ _Shitton_ of trumpets!”

  
Keith looks at the sheet music. He recognizes some of the songs; it’s stuff his dad used to play around the house. Last year his school did Evita. This feels much more…informal.

  
“Alright,” Coran shouts over the din of rustling sheet music. “We’re going to do our first run-through. Four bars at a time, half tempo. Shiro, this is us – “

  
He snaps out a slow tempo. Shiro quickly picks it up on his rim.

  
“Horns up!”

  
Sixty horns rise in the air. Keith licks his lips as a thrill rushes through him.

  
“First four bars – one, two, three, four!”

  
Keith puts his lips to his mouthpiece and soars.

 

* * *

 

New Kid – Keith – is fucking good at trumpet.

  
It’s shitty, but Lance was maybe hoping for the leather jacket and motorcycle to be compensation for some lack of musical talent. He is sorely wrong.

  
They hit some high notes in the first section, _Fat Bottomed Girls_ , and Keith never misses a beat. He’s perfectly in tune and really loud, with lungs for days. Lance catches Kolivan watching Keith and when he meets Lance’s eyes, he raises his eyebrows. Shit.

  
Lance shakes his head and tries to focus on his own horn. It feels amazing to be playing after a whole summer off, and the rustiness goes away almost as soon as he gets into the music. He knows he’s improved since he started, he can feel it in his playing, and Kolivan gives him an approving nod after a particularly good run. Lance turns around to catch Hunk’s eye and he gives him a massive thumb’s up.

  
Any other year, this would be Lance’s best band camp ever. But fucking Keith with his fucking mullet is ruining it.

  
Shiro leads the drumline away eventually, so they can be obnoxiously loud drummers somewhere else. Lance loves the drumline – they’re the only ones consistently up for his shenanigans – but there’s a reason Shiro gets the loudest applause of the whole group. Without him keeping a hold on the drumline, band practices would be ten times longer than they already are.

  
“Hey guys,” Lance says, leaning over to the trumpets in the break, “what do you call a drummer with half a brain?”

  
(He’s watching for Keith’s reaction, he’ll admit it.)

  
“What, Lance?” One of the freshmen asks.

  
“Gifted,” he grins.

  
The freshmen laugh appreciatively, Kolivan rolls his eyes, and Keith – doesn’t react. Looks down at his music, fingers still on his keys, and Lance can tell he’s clearly going over fingerings. What asshole actually pays attention in band practice?

  
Lance is about two seconds from actually calling him out on it and probably embarrassing himself even further when Coran calls out, “Alright we’re going to take a break – leave your instruments down, because it’s time for marching!”

  
A loud groan comes up from the Garrison High Marching Lions.

  
“Come now, what marching band would we be if we didn’t march? Why in my day, when I joined as a bright-eyed mellophone, we used to march for hours in the snow, just to get the honor to play for the great Altea High Fighting Lancers – “

  
“Nobody cares, Coran, you’re old!” Pidge yells.

  
The freshmen look aghast, but Coran just scoffs and twirls his moustache, no real anger on his face. Because of who she is and what she does, Pidge is the only one in the band who gets to sass Coran (except for Allura, because she’s his niece, but she only ever lets her sass flag fly in private). It makes Pidge easy to hero-worship; Lance can see a few freshmen staring at her in awe, and he turns around to roll eyes with Hunk.

  
“For that, Number Five,” Coran says craftily, “you get to teach the newbies how to march.”

  
“No fair, my legs are half as long as everybody else’s!” Pidge shouts immediately.

  
“Simple feats such as height should be no match for Holt ingenuity! Chop-chop, children!”

  
If looks could incinerate, Coran would be a smoldering pile of moustache on the floor.

  
They troop outside to the football field, gathering water bottles. Lance pulls a rumpled snapback from his trumpet case and pops it on the back of his head. With his dad’s old aviators on, he grins at the sunshine.

  
"God, I feel good," he tells Hunk.

  
"I'm glad, buddy," Hunk says, because Hunk is the best of the best.

  
"If you feel so good, you can help me teach marching," Pidge grumbles as they walk, her high-tops squishing in the turf. "I am four-feet-ten, why am I teaching marching?"

  
"Funny, whenever we're at amusement parks your height magically bounces up to at least five-one."

  
Pidge glares at him through her glasses and Lance scoops her up in a hug. "I love you very much, Pidgeotto," he says grandly as she wriggles against him.

  
Other people are staring at them, but Lance doesn't care. He's suddenly filled with love and gratitude for his friends, and this band, and his trumpet, and the sunshine, and the all the brand-new possibilities of a new school year, away from his too-small house and singing in the shower. Pidge must be able to tell, because she stops wriggling and lets herself be hugged.

  
"I love you too," she says amusedly. "You are my very favorite nuisance."

  
Lance doesn't even get offended, just presses a loud, smacking kiss to the top of her fluffy brown hair. She pushes away at that, swatting lazily at his arm before tromps off to the freshmen, who are standing by the far goalpost looking lost. Hunk's got a weird smile on his face.

  
"You okay, bub?" He asks.

  
"Just grand," Lance responds.

  
"You sure?"

  
"This is going to be our year, Hunk, I can fucking feel it."

  
And Keith the sexy new trumpet can run and tell _that_.

 

* * *

 

 _Alright_ , Keith thought, _guess I'm just going to stay inside_.

  
It's his first night at band camp, and as far as he can tell he's going to be in this little college dorm the whole night. His roommate is a very gruff senior drummer, who dropped his bag without unpacking a single thing, gave a quick "Sup brah," and then immediately left to go hang out with his friends. Keith has no real desire to go anywhere with this guy or his friends, but, well...it would've been nice to be invited, at least.

  
So he's laying on his bed, still in his jeans on top of his sleeping bag, lazily playing Fruit Ninja on his phone. He can hear noises from the hall of an entire band getting to know each other – freshmen girls squealing and laughing about some TV show they've found in common, guys comparing kill stats in Call of Duty, the occasional stampede as someone chases someone else and the whole group bursts out laughing.

  
It sounds like they're having fun, but the thought of going out there and joining in is paralyzing. Keith has no idea how he would even start. _Hi, I'm Keith, I used to go to a military school and I have no real friends?_ Even if he did get over crippling social anxiety to go talk to them, he'd probably get panicky and over-exhausted halfway through and just leave to go back to his room. Because that's what always happens whenever he has social interactions. Better to just stay in the room. Keith's always been good on his own, anyway.

  
So he settles back to play Fruit Ninja for the rest of the night.

  
After about an hour, however, his plan has clearly backfired, and he's bored to shit. It's barely ten o'clock, and he thinks he heard someone say that lights out are at midnight, if anyone's even going to check on them. He's normally a pretty heavy sleeper, but outside is still just as loud as before and he's in a new place, so he's starting to think that tonight's going to be an anomaly. He sent his dad a quick text, letting him know that he got settled in and the first day went well, and his dad responded with lots of encouragement and a 'Call me if you've got some downtime.' Keith sent a thumbs up and that was the end of that.

  
He plays for another ten minutes and then decides in a fit of rage that there's no way that he can stay here all night. So he grabs his jacket, phone and key and muscles his way through the halls, not making eye contact with anybody. He crosses the hall and is out in fresh air in approximately two minutes.

  
_Look at that_ , he thinks, tipping his head to the sky, _social anxiety is conquered by impulsive decision-making. Well done._

  
He stuffs his hands in his pockets and starts to wander aimlessly. The campus is well-lit, lots of tall lampposts and sandy arches, wide paths for longboarding and big stretches of grassy lawns. If he closes his eyes, he can pretend like he smells the sea. If he'd thought about this for more than two seconds, he would've brought his headphones so he could listen to some music. But all he's got is his phone and the sound of a sleepy campus with no students.

  
Sometimes he misses Texas, when he's alone at night like this. He's not really from Texas, but it is where they spent the most amount of time, cumulatively; his mom was stationed at Fort Bliss when he was a kid, and then again freshman year. It's not like he fit in any better in Texas than anywhere else – a half-Korean kid with no social skills and no permanent home wasn't really going to do well anywhere – but just due to the sheer fact that he got to go back to somewhere, he's always had a soft spot for Texas. Sure, people could be racist and it could get really hick and he never really learned to like Whataburger, but the sky was pretty, and the nights were quiet.

  
The skies are pretty here too, but in a different way – less stars, and more gorgeous thin clouds, tall mountains and sunsets. He's been in California for about a year now; Mom got stationed outside of Riverside, but they were only there for a few months before...you know. Shit hit the fan. His dad decided a move would be good for them, and he got a job in Long Beach, and easy as that they had moved again. Keith didn't care; what was one more move, one more new place?

  
"Garrison High has a good marching band," his dad said, and that was that.

  
Keith wanders until he finds a nice little secluded corner, a little copse of palm trees (because southern California will always be southern California) by what looks like the rec center. He lays down on a bench – the plaque on the back is dedicated to Carlos and Rosalind Montoya, who donated to the school – and stares up at the sky, one leg dangling towards the ground and one kicked up on the bench. The palm trees sway above him. He finds himself humming the song from earlier today, off-pitch and low.

  
_Oh, won't you take me home tonight? Oh, down beside the red firelight -_

  
He looked the song up earlier, when Pidge was teaching the freshmen how to march. He felt no need to join in. He's marched in every school he's ever been in; he knows how to measure steps and look forward and keep his horn up. No way marching at Garrison High could ever be harder than his last school.

  
_Oh, you gonna let it all hang out? Fat bottomed girls you make the rocking world go round..._

  
He closes his eyes and lets it all sink away.

  
He’s halfway to asleep when there’s a foot in his face.

  
“Oh shit – “

  
Keith startles awake to see a sneakered foot hovering in midair just above his face, attached to the leg of the brown-haired trumpet player from earlier.

  
Trumpet Player’s eyes are huge. “Oh my God, what are you doing? Are you sleeping out here?”

  
“Were you going to kick me?” Keith asks.

  
“No, tying my shoe!” He gestures emphatically. “Anyway, don’t change the subject, what are you doing lying on a park bench at eleven at night?”

  
“What are you doing wandering around a park at eleven at night?” Two people are with Trumpet Player – Pidge the sax section leader, and a big guy wearing a yellow headband and a guilty expression.

  
“Hi Keith,” Pidge waves.

  
Keith waves back dazedly, and then – “Wait, how do you know my name?”

  
“Allura told me,” Pidge says. “Because I asked. You’re new, so you intrigue people.”

  
“Okay…but what are you doing out?”

  
“We’re stalking Shiro,” the big guy says. “Well, not stalking, that sounds bad, but he’s not in his dorm and Allura’s not in hers so we’re pretty sure they’re off canoodling. I’d like to say, this is not my idea, this is all him, I wanted to stay in the dorm. I’m Hunk, by the way,” he says, extending a hand. Keith takes it out of reflex. His hand is warm and dry and firm, and Hunk gives him an easy smile.

  
“I’m here because I’m nosy,” Pidge says. She’s even smaller in person, wearing a green army jacket, shorts and orange high-top sneakers. Massive glasses and short brown hair give her the look of an androgynous elf. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell if Shiro is a real human or a perfect robot, so we’re investigating. Do you want to come?”

  
“Come do what?” Keith asks dumbly.

  
“No, _Keith_ cannot come,” Trumpet Player says with a sneer. “We are on a mission, and we do not have time for petty distractions.”

  
“Well curfew’s in an hour, so shit or get off the pot,” Pidge says.

  
Trumpet Player gives Keith a once-over and scoffs. “Alright, come on, Mullet.”

  
And they’re off, walking through the palm trees to the gym. _Guess I’m not staying in tonight_ , Keith thinks, as he follows.

  
They walk around back, keeping to the shadows even though literally nobody else is on campus. “So why the gym?” Keith asks.

  
“Shiro is a swimmer,” Hunk explains. “Allura is too, which Shiro doesn’t know. But we’re thinking that maybe they both used Coran’s connections to get into the gym to practice – not that Coran would tell us anything, because he’s super old school and just told us not to meddle and all sorts of other stuff I couldn’t really understand. But Lance knows where the pool is, cause he did a swim camp here one summer, and he says he can get us in.”

  
“Oh, is that your name?” Keith asks. “Lance?”

  
The guy stops dead in his tracks and turns to Keith with the kind of expression that would be totally appropriate if Keith killed his mom. He’s got arching eyebrows and a pointed nose and chin and right now he’s furious. “You don’t know my _name_? How do you not know my name?”

  
“Cause you never introduced yourself?”

  
“Lance, not everyone in the world has been blessed by your presence,” Hunk says exhaustedly. He’s kneeling by the back of the building, in front of a set of metal doors with a simple chain and padlock between both handles. “Come on, you said this was gonna be open.”

  
“I said no such thing,” Lance says, leaning down to look at it. “I told you I knew where it was in the building and it was around the back, I never told you I could get in.”

  
Still reeling from the events of the night, Keith nudges forward to look down at the lock. It’s a simple lock, with a three-number combination. He sets the first two numbers at zero and starts spinning the third number while pushing up on the hasp.

  
“What are you doing?” Pidge peeks over his arm, adjusting her glasses.

  
“Locks like this are easy,” Keith says. He sets the second number to one and then keeps spinning. “You can basically run through every combination in a few minutes while you trigger the unlocking mechanism. I’m already on the one hundreds.”

  
He can feel warm bodies pressing up against him as Hunk and Lance crowd over his shoulder, and it’s been a long time since he’s really had human contact so Keith forgives himself for stiffening up a bit. He flicks it into the two hundreds and keeps scrolling, until –

  
The lock jumps open in his hands, and he flicks it over to look at the numbers. “201. Remember that.”

  
“ _What?_ How did you know how to _do_ that? Were you a criminal?” Lance asks.

  
“No,” Keith says, “like, the opposite,” because he’s not quite sure how to say _I looked this up on YouTube one night while I was really bored because making friends is hard for me_ without sounding like the most desperate kid at fucking _band camp_. But they all look impressed rather than terrified. Hunk gives him a thumbs up as Lance flicks the lights on in the darkened hallway.

  
“Come on delinquent, pool’s up here.”

  
If espionage is what they're going for, they're impressively bad at it; Lance and Hunk creep along the walls like they're in Mission: Impossible, but then ruin the effect by talking in incredibly loud whispers. Pidge isn't terrible, per se, but she is curious, and she keeps peeking in every door and then loudly exclaiming shit like, "Hey, it's the football coach's room, let's draw moustaches on all the trophies." Keith lives in perpetual fear of discovery and expulsion with each new corridor full of lights that they carelessly flick on, but everyone else doesn't seem to care, and he reasons that they won't expel all of them (and definitely not the saxophone section leader), so he might as well enjoy it. They spend a solid five minutes trying to replicate the poses on an old gymnastics poster from the 70's, which Lance gleefully posts on Instagram with the caption 'Stayin on that grind #studentathlete #hustle Corinthians 1:20' and a barrage of emojis.

  
"What bible quote is Corinthians 1:20?" Hunk asks.

  
"Fuck if I know, but every student athlete has some garbage Bible quote in their Instagram so we have to have one too."

  
(Pidge does a quick Google search and informs them that 1 Corinthians 1:20 is 'Where is the wise person?', which is all too fitting.)

  
Finally they come upon the locked back door which reads 'Pool'. "I can't open that," Keith says, gesturing to the swivel combination lock on this door. He gets a stab of anxiety – _what if he was only here to open locks? If he has nothing else to contribute, are they going to send him home?_ He tries to beat the panic down.

  
"Don't need you to," Pidge says, and turns to a door kitty-corner which reads 'Diving Platform'. "Look at this." The lock on this door is laughably small, and one strong pull from Hunk has it popping open.

  
"Pidgeon, what will you give me to not push you off?" Lance asks, as they creep into a darkened staircase.

  
"A lifetime of enjoying your testicles," she deadpans.

  
"Ouch," Hunk says sympathetically.

  
They creep up through the staircase and finally quiet themselves at the top whenever Lance hushes them all and they crouch forward on hands and knees. The first thing Keith sees is the roof, shimmering a strange blue-green as it reflects the pool. There's an eerie stillness, metallic and echoing, and the only sound is soft, rhythmic splashing. They're very high up on a concrete platform with no railings, and Keith doesn't need to look over the side to know that the splash would hurt like a son of a bitch. Lance, totally unfraid, gets right down onto his belly and army-crawls up to the edge, peeking his head over the edge.

  
"Visual on Allura," he whispers. Hunk flops on his belly and Pidge clambers on top of him like a spider monkey. Keith puts an awkward hand on Lance's back and leans over to see, far below, Allura doing solitary laps in the silent green pool. The lights are almost all off, just a single overhead light in the corner.

  
"Where the fuck is Shiro?" Lance whispers. His thin shoulder blades shift between Keith's hand and he whips his hand back like it's been burned, face red. Lance doesn't react, but his ears are suspiciously pink.

  
Pidge sits cross-legged and pulls out her phone. "Alright, time for Plan B."

  
"Out of curiosity, how long has Matt had a tracking device in Shiro's phone?" Lance asks. They all pull themselves up and make themselves comfortable on a slab of concrete covered by a thin matting. Keith sneaks a peek and thinks that they must be at least 20 feet in the air, which makes his stomach swoop. He inches closer to the group, sitting huddled together in the center, before Lance's words sink in.

  
"Wait," he says dumbly. "Tracking device?"

  
"Don't worry about it," Pidge says dismissively. Her fingers are flying over her bulky black smartphone, a green alien sticker on the back. "'Tracking device' is really an exaggeration, it's more like a Lojack with enhanced capabilities, I can't hack his phone or anything. And Matt's had Shiro tapped for at least five years. He steals it once a year at our Fourth of July barbecue to do updates. Shiro thinks the party is cursed."

  
"So, Keith," Hunk says easily, popping one knee up and wrapping an arm around it. "You play trumpet?"

  
_Are we not gonna talk about the tracking device?_ Keith thinks, and then decides to move on. "Yeah. You?"

  
"Trombone," Hunk says. "Are you new to Long Beach?"

  
"Yeah, I've been in Riverside for a couple of months but we just moved."

  
Lance sits cross-legged and leans forward. "Why would you move halfway through high school?"

  
"Rude," Hunk says, giving Lance a shove. He totters precariously on the concrete and Hunk's whole face goes white, scooping him up and pulling him closer. "Shit shit I'm _so_ sorry, I'm so sorry - "

  
"You should be, I almost died!" Lance squawks, and then is promptly shushed as his voice ricochets around the room. They all peek over and see Allura still swimming, totally unperturbed.

  
"Water must've muffled the sound," Pidge says. "Ha! Dad is in the building. He's lifting weights, what a hypebeast."

  
"Well, get him here!"

  
"What's your plan? Tell him 'Come to the pool, we ship you and Allura?'"

  
"Your dad is a hypebeast and has a crush on Allura?" Keith asks slowly.

  
Pidge bursts out with such a powerful laugh that Hunk physically slaps her mouth to keep the sound in. Lance is giggling behind him and Keith flushes red. "Sorry, that must be confusing," Hunk says politely. "We call Shiro 'Dad'. Or 'Daddy'. He's just so paternal, it's really easy. Allura is 'Mom' sometimes. Not Pidge's real dad."

  
"My father is not a hypebeast," Pidge whispers, her eyes alight with laughter. "My father wears orthopedic shoes and uses a tuning fork for his baritone. He is far from a hypebeast."

  
"So you call Shiro _'Daddy'?_ "

  
"Only when I want him to choke me," Lance says easily, and it takes Keith a second before he figures out what he means and starts almost choking himself. Lance smirks at him, blue eyes glinting in the darkness. It's a smirk that sits easily on his face, a natural expression.

  
"Stop traumatizing Keith," Hunk says. "Alright, Lance, you're going to text him and ask to look for your paddleboard that you left here last summer at camp, you bet it got thrown in with the other ones and could Shiro please take a look?"

  
"Well done Hunkasaurus," Lance says, whipping his phone out. "Operation: Parent Trap commencing."

  
"So, are you guys all seniors?" Keith asks.

  
"No, Hunk and I are juniors," Lance says. "Pidge is a sophomore."

  
"You're a sophomore? But...you're section leader?"

  
"I'm a special breed," she says, eyes lidded and smirking behind her round glasses.

  
Keith is saved from having to answer by the door opening, echoing loudly in the room. They all immediately drop to their bellies and inch forward, four sets of eyes peeking out above the diving board as Shiro walks in the room wearing a tank top, headphones in his ears and squinting down at his phone. He spots Allura in the water and starts waving.

  
"Yaaaas Daddy," Lance whispers, which prompts Keith to make a face.

  
Allura pulls up to the ledge and pops her goggles off her face. "Shiro! What are you doing here?"

  
"A few reps before bed. Coran gave you the code too?" It's far away, but Keith thinks he can see Shiro's eyes roving briefly over Allura in her lithe black bathing suit before snapping respectfully up to her face.

  
"He's been too chicken to make a move for years," Lance whispers. "It's getting ridiculous. We have to intervene. They'll thank us when they get married."

  
"There have to be some advantages to being the director's niece," Allura says slyly. "And you're in the swimming pool because...?"

  
"Lance forgot something here when he went to a swim camp last year," Shiro says, waving his phone. "Not that I see any paddleboards even out here, so it's probably a last cause. Not sure why he even remembered it..."

  
"He has a remarkable affinity for remembering the very little details while also forgetting the big stuff," Allura says. Lance puffs up in indignation and Hunk chuckles under his breath. "But I am excited to see him again. All of them, really, I think Voltron's going to do amazing. And so many good new band people!"

  
"It's a strong band, absolutely," Shiro says. "I have a lot of faith in us, I think we'll pull off another great performance."

  
"Oh my God, who _talks_ like that," Lance hisses. "Act like a high school boy for once in your life and tell her she looks hot in her bathing suit and you want to take her to the drive-in movie and make out in the backseat!"

  
"Do we even have a drive-in movie?" Hunk asks.

  
“Your attention to useless details is inspiring, Hunk.”

  
“What AP’s are you taking this year? You want to go to Oxford, right?” Shiro is asking.

  
“I can’t believe you remembered that,” Allura says with a laugh. “Let’s see, I’m in English Lit, Government, Physics, European History – “

  
“Okay, how about this,” Lance says. “I send him a dick pic. He looks at it, realizes he’s definitely straight, and that he should lock down a pretty girl before he gets hit on by dudes.”

  
Keith stiffens up, though he can’t quite articulate why.

  
“Lance McClain,” Pidge says, “That’s the dumbest idea any human being in this universe has ever had.”

  
“Whose dick are you sending?” Hunk says.

  
“Mine, obviously. Take one for the team,” Lance replies easily. “Or you could take your pick of any of the saved dick pics I’ve got on my phone. There’s a whole folder. I’m very popular on Snapchat.”

  
Keith thinks his face is going to set on fire and fall, flaming, into the pool.

  
“Shut up, dickwad.”

  
“No, you guys, this one guy last year sent me the most artistic dick pic, all black and white, I swear there was a Chinese symbol on the wall behind him, it was an _aesthetic_ , Shiro would be super into it – “

  
“ _Lance!_ ”

  
Hunk’s voice reverberates, and Shiro and Allura look over as the other four flatten themselves to the platform.

  
“Did you hear something?” Allura says.

  
“Yeah, definitely…it sounded like – “ From the one eye he has on the scene, Keith can see Shiro look down at his phone, a look of realization dawning on his face.

  
“Abort, abort!” Keith hisses. “Evacuate now!”

  
They all scramble backwards and into the staircase, Hunk almost tripping over himself as they spill out of the staircase. They sprint down the hallway, reaching out and turning lights off as they go, and Keith’s lightheaded with exhilaration when they reach the door outside.

  
Pidge and Hunk sprint out, and Keith is turning behind them he sees a door open, a single spill of light in the otherwise pitch-black hallway. “It’s the coach’s room,” he hisses, “I’ll – “

  
“Save yourself!” Lance whispers dramatically, grabbing Keith by the arms and planting a dramatic kiss to his forehead. Then he whips down the hallway on his long legs, flicks the light off and pulls the door closed, and runs back. Halfway there he pretends to get shot, hands flying to his chest as he groans dramatically and all but collapses through the doorway, knees buckling.

  
Keith pulls the door shut behind them, shoves the combo lock back on, and scrambles the numbers.

  
Lance is still lying on the ground, hands clutching at his chest.

  
“Do it for the Vine,” he says, raising a fist.

  
Hunk starts laughing, Pidge rolls her eyes good-naturedly, and Keith gives a breathless laugh as a smile fights its way onto his lips.

  
The cicadas shriek in the trees around them as Keith realizes he’s just had one of the best nights of his life.


	2. Confiscate You

When Keith walks in for his second day of band practice, the difference from his first day is immediate. Allura, deep in conversation with Shay, turns to the door and waves at him. Pidge flicks her eyes up from her phone and gives him a nod and a smile. Hunk shouts, “Hey Keith!” and Keith’s so startled that he forgets to wave back for an embarrassing amount of time.

Finally, Lance gives him a warm smile and pats the seat next to him. Keith walks over and sits down, pulling out his trumpet.

“Morning, Mullet,” Lance says with a smirk.

“It’s not a mullet,” Keith grumbles. “I’m growing it out.” He’s had a short military cut for years; this is the first time he’s had any say over his hair in years. He’s still reeling from not wearing a uniform. Is this how escaped convicts feel?

“Uh-huh,” Lance says. “That’s what Billy Ray Cyrus said. I’m warning you now, if you start singing anything about hearts that are either achy or breaky, this friendship is immediately over.”

Keith doesn’t have any time to respond – they were friends, already? After one night? – because Shiro is walking over to them, wearing jeans and a smile.

“Good morning Lance,” he says, eyes flickering over Keith. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met – I’m Shiro, I’m the drum captain.”

“Keith,” he says, shaking his hand. Shiro’s entire right arm is covered in a black thermal sleeve, all the way to his wrist, where a fingerless black glove takes over. Keith is distracted by it for a moment and then snaps his eyes back up to Shiro’s face. Shiro seems pleased by this.

“You’re new this year?”

“Yeah, I’m a junior.”

“Everyone treating you well?”

“Yeah, everyone’s fine.”

“Lance hasn’t scared you off yet?”

Lance rolls his eyes, and Keith fights back a smile as he says, “Not yet.”

“Hmm. And Lance, you weren’t doing anything interesting last night? Nothing that would keep you up past curfew?”

“No, sir,” Lance replies easily.

“Nothing like, say, breaking into the gym and spying on upperclassmen?”

A cold sweat breaks out on the back of Keith’s neck. Shiro’s got one eyebrow raised. Holy shit, his biceps are huge. He could probably punch Keith through the wall.

But Lance says, cool as a cucumber, “Why, Takashi, I would never! Leave my dorm building and break curfew? What kind of leader would I be if I did that? Why, in fact, I am _insulted_ that you would imply such a thing about it, don’t you know me by now, has our friendship meant _nothing_ to you – “

“Okay,” Shiro says. He’s clearly not convinced, Keith can tell that much, but he’s smiling as he claps Lance on the shoulder. “Let’s set a good example for Keith, shall we?”

“Okay Daddy,” Lance chirps.

Shiro shudders and glares at him as he stalks back to the drumline.

“Shuts him up right quick,” Lance whispers. “Makes me think he actually _does_ have a daddy kink.”

Keith is spared from answering by Coran arriving in a flurry of papers. “Good morning, all! Don’t you all look lovely this morning! Are we all well-rested? Get a good breakfast? Alright, alright, I don’t need you to tell me what you ate, Hunk, I believe you. We’re going to run through _Fat Bottomed Girls_ again today, should move onto the _Bohemian Rhapsody_ section before lunch and marching. Alright, start at the top, full tempo, let me hear those horns. One, two, three, four – “

Lance is a good trumpet player, Keith thinks as they play. He’s a bit too flashy for Keith’s taste – he’s got a really exaggerated way of moving his fingers, and sometimes his runs are a bit stuttery – but he’s got chops, that much is clear. Kolivan’s a good, steady player, but Lance seems to have the heart. Coran won’t let them move on from _Fat Bottomed Girls_ until, in his own words, “He could hear the horns ringing in his ears for days.” Keith watches him out of the corner of his eye; Lance takes a deep breath and just wails on his trumpet. Kolivan nods at him afterwards and Lance seems to puff up with pride.

Kolivan, Keith and Lance, it seems, are the only upperclassmen in the trumpet section. Yesterday, Kolivan had occasionally checked in with Keith, made sure he understood the music and was doing okay; today he doesn’t at all, only focuses on the freshmen and sophomores and leaves Keith and Lance to their own devices. Keith looks down at the trumpet in his lap and tries not to smile like a dork, but it feels good. It feels really good. When he looks back up, he thinks he can see Lance watching him and smiling too.

“Alright, one last time on _Fat Bottomed Girls_ ,” Coran says. “I can still hear myself think, so it needs to be louder!”

Keith takes a deep breath.

 

* * *

 

 

  **Group Message: Team Voltron #roar #spankmedaddy**

 **Allura** :  I’ll see you all in the band room after dinner to help out, right?

  **Lance:**  Thought that was just for section leaders ???

 **Allura:**  But you and Hunk are such leaders in the band and we could use all the help we could get!! Please you guys, does our friendship mean nothing to you?

  **Lance:**  Sweeten the pot

  **Pidge:**  Omg you are such trash

 **Hunk:**  I’ll be there Allura!!!

 **Allura:**  Thank you Hunk!! *kissing emoji*                                    

 **Allura:**  What do you want Lance?

 **Lance:**  Embarrassing childhood photos of Coran to use as blackmail in case I ever run a coup

  **Pidge:**  That was not discussed in our coup plans

 **Allura:**  Done.

 **Lance:**  Thanks princess ;)

 **Shiro:**  Lance if you don’t change the name of this chat right now you are going to be doing sunrise marching drills for the next year

  **Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #fuckmedaddy**

 **Shiro:**  SIX AM TOMORROW LANCE

  **Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #daddyissues #shirostopkinkshamingme**

 **Shiro:**  Accepted

 **Lance:**  *kissing emoji* Corinthians 1:20

 

* * *

 

 

The knock comes at nine at night. Keith, once again lying on his bed playing Fruit Ninja, looks up in surprise. He walks to the door in his pajama pants and cracks it open to see Hunk’s smiling face.

“Hi, Keith!”

“Hey,” he says, opening the door. Hunk’s wearing a yellow t-shirt, khaki shorts and flip-flops, with that ever-present orange headband that would look terrible on anyone else but somehow works on his wide face and dark skin. He’s got such an easy smile, like smiling is his default expression and he’s happy to be happy. He seems utterly unphased by Keith’s general standoffishness and the sheer confusion that Keith’s sure he’s radiating right now.

“Having a good night?” Hunk asks.

“Sure, I guess. My roommate ran off.”                                                                                             

“Yeah, his name’s Thace, he does that. If you’re not busy, do you want to come help me out? We’ve got a little project and we could use some more hands.”

“Uh, okay,” Keith says. What else was he going to do, keep playing Fruit Ninja? “Let me put some pants on.”

Hunk waits patiently while Keith changes into his jeans and Converse, leaving on his black t-shirt. When he’s dressed and the door’s locked, they pick their way through the kids sitting on the floor of the hall, Hunk cheerfully waving at everybody and getting a chorus of waves back even though Keith’s not sure how he managed to meet so many people in two days at band camp.

“So what are we doing?” Keith says, stuffing his hands in his pockets as they stroll through campus back towards the band room.

“Well, we do a scavenger hunt on the Wednesday of every band camp. As a sort of, “You made it!” Which doesn’t make much sense, since all the worst marching is always on Thursday and Friday. But it’s Allura’s baby, it’s her way of welcoming the new kids and doing band bonding and all that jazz. It’s gotten more and more elaborate with every year, so a whole bunch of people help put it together on Tuesday night.”

“Seniors?”

“Section leaders,” Hunk says, “and me and Lance, cause we haven’t been able to say no to Allura in two years and the odds aren’t looking good for this year either. But at least Lance got something out of it this year.”

Keith raises an eyebrow, and Hunk sighs. “It’s a long story, but Lance is getting blackmail material in exchange for helping.”

“Sounds typical.”

“Have you gotten to talk to him much?”

“No, but he just seems like an asshole,” Keith says without pausing to think. “Sorry, I know he’s your friend,” he follows up, when he sees Hunk’s dismayed face.

“Hey,” Hunk says in a firm voice, and Keith stops, thinks, _Shit, I really fucked up._  “I know he comes off like a douche. I get that, I really do. But there’s a reason we’re all friends with him. Good friends. Life-long friends. I wouldn’t want anyone else to have my back in a firefight. You gotta give him a chance, man, because there is so much more to him than everything you see.”

They’re standing under a lamppost, Hunk several inches taller looking down at Keith, and Keith says, “Okay” with his rabbiting heart, because what else can he say?

Hunk’s face splits open in a grin again, and he reaches out and rubs Keith’s shoulder. “Thanks bro, I appreciate it. Come on, we’re almost there.”

All animosity forgotten, he chats all the way to the band room while words rush in Keith’s head.

Hunk has a key to the music studio and then another key to the band room, which is bustling when they get in. Devoid of students, the cavernous space is filled now with tall white feathers, cardboard posters, a printer going non-stop in the corner, and twelve seniors standing at tables stuffing goodie bags. They all turn to Keith and shout “Hey!” at various volumes and keys.

Keith’s poor introvert heart is starting to wish he’d stayed home. He raises a hand and halfway attempts a smile.

Allura dashes over to him, wearing skinny jeans and an old tie-dyed t-shirt that reads ‘Garrison High Marching Band’. “Keith, I am so glad you could come! What a fantastic idea from Hunk to bring you here today! I think you know everybody, yes? Awesome, could you go over with Pidge to help put together the tie-dye buckets? They’re going to be making these t-shirts!” She pinches her shirt and pulls it forward, eyes lit up and mega-watt smile beaming.

“They’re very rainbow,” Keith says, like a dumbass.

Lance, standing over by the printer, laughs, but covers it in a cough. Keith glares at him and Lance just waves jovially.

“Ignore him,” Pidge says as Keith walks up. She’s stationed by the timpanis with several massive tubs in front of her. “He’s got the best job and he’s enjoying lording it over us. Don’t worry, we’ll get him back tomorrow. Alright, so all of these need to have ten t-shirts, one container each of every color of dye, six smaller dishes, ten pairs of gloves, a whole bunch of rubberbands, a drop cloth, one container of dye fixer, squeeze bottles, ten big Zip-locs, and Sharpies. Got it?”

 _No_ , Keith thinks, but then looks at the one tub that’s already prepared and says, “Yeah, and if I forget, I’m going to check what’s in that tub.”

“Good man,” Pidge says. “We’re making ten tubs.”

Keith nods and gets to work. It’s all here in easy reach, so it’s a fairly straightforward job of making sure it’s all in the tub. Easy laughter punctuates easy conversations at the other tables; someone’s put on calm rock in the background, something like the Eagles.

It’s all organized chaos. Allura’s running around like a headless chicken but she doesn’t look stressed, just frenetic, and everyone’s pretty calm amidst the mess. Pidge is humming to herself as she works, and it makes Keith finally relax, letting his shoulders drop from their defensive position up around his ears.

“So Pidge is a weird name,” he says. _Jesus Kogane, no wonder you don’t have any friends, who_ says _that?_ His whole face flushes red.

Pidge, however, just looks up at him with a smile. “It’s Katie, officially,” she says. “Katelyn, super officially. Pidge is a family nickname that stuck. It’s my _nom de guerre_ at this point, I guess.”

“Pretty cool sophomore that has a _nom_ _de_ _guerre_ ,” Keith replies. “Does it have something to do with why you’re section leader?”

“No, nothing to do with that.”

“So why are you section leader? What makes you so special?”

“I can play any instrument in this room,” Pidge states. “Try me.”

Keith stands up, puts his hands on his hips, and looks around. “French horn,” he says.

Pidge smiles slyly, shoots him a look through her glasses, and walks over to a French horn case back up against the wall. Keith watches as she pulls the instrument out of its case and easily fits it together like she’s done it a hundred times. A couple people down at different stations are watching them now. Pidge sits down, fits her hand down the bell, places her hands on the keys, and plays.

“Damn,” Keith says. He’s been a horn player his whole life and he’s _terrible_ at French horn; they tried to get him to do it during concert season last year and he was so bad they sent him back to trumpet after two days. But here’s this girl, playing what sounds like Wagner’s Ring Cycle and doing it beautifully.

Pidge pauses and looks up. “Well?”

“Do the bassoon,” Keith says next, because he never said he’s not an asshole.

“Non-believer,” Pidge says, and then walks over to pull out a bassoon. Allura’s paused the music and now everybody is watching. Nobody looks surprised; Lance actually looks like a proud dad.

It takes Pidge a bit of time to put together the bassoon, sucking on the double reed absentmindedly as she fits together the parts of the instrument. When it’s finally put together it’s about half the size she is, and she holds it diagonally across from her and says, “I can’t play it for too long cause this thing’s heavy and I don’t see a seat strap in here, so no one’s getting a concerto.”

“Boo,” Lance calls, and Pidge rolls her eyes and starts to play. It’s a bit off-tune but it’s gorgeous, low and rich and wonderful, and she closes her eyes as her fingers move over the complicated keys.

When she’s done, scattered applause breaks out in the band room. She adjusts her glasses in acknowledgement and lays it across her lap to break it down.

“How – “ Keith says.

“Bagpipes!” Lance says. “Do the bagpipes!”

“Oh jeez,” Shiro says.

“Pidgey come on, the bagpipes are so much fun, please?” Lance begs.

“Yeah, I haven’t heard the bagpipes in so long, _please_?” Hunk says.

“Please, Pidge? Please?” Shay’s in on it now too, hands clapsed in front of her.

Pidge sighs and keeps breaking down the bassoon. “Bring them out.”

Lance whoops and runs over into a side room, because he apparently already knows where the bagpipes are. “They’re his favorite,” Pidge says as he fits the bassoon back in the case. “Learning how to play them was the worst decision I ever made.”

“How do you do that?” Keith asks. “All these different instruments?”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘musical prodigy,’” she says smugly. “Runs in the family. I do composition work too, help Coran with the arrangement and orchestration and stuff.”

“So if you can play any instrument, why tenor sax?”

Lance has finally lugged out a massive black case which he is painstakingly hauling up to where Pidge is sitting (Hunk takes pity on him halfway through and helps him carry it up). Pidge pats them both on the arm and starts unzipping it and taking out parts. “Because it’s my favorite,” she replies with a little smile. “Saxophones are the family instrument, and tenor sax is the most fun of any of them. I play enough incredibly difficult, incredibly rare instruments. Sometimes I just want to play my sax on some good, loud, band music, you know? Alright – “

She hefts up the bagpipes, looking utterly ridiculous with the massive instrument tucked in and around her tiny body. Lance is vibrating with excitement and Allura and Shiro are watching with bright smiles.

Pidge smiles, and then seems to hit the bag with her hand, tucking the bag up under her as the first note buzzes out. Lance starts clapping already, and Pidge puts the wooden pipe in her mouth and starts playing. It’s the weirdest thing Keith’s ever seen, because she sucks in breath but it doesn’t at all match up with the notes that are coming out. He figures it’s the fact that there’s so much air in the bag, and he squints to try and figure out this instrument, but then he stops trying and just enjoys it because he's never seen the bagpipes played live before and this is pretty cool.

“Play that one bagpipe song!” Hunk yells. “The one they all play!”

Pidge switches immediately to a super recognizable song, something Keith’s heard in parades before, and Hunk cheers. Lance starts up a do-si-do, hooking his arm in Hunk’s as they spin around, and then he spins away and does the same to Allura, and she’s laughing and they’re dancing in a music room to some kid playing the bagpipes in Long Beach, California, and it’s the single oddest thing Keith’s ever seen but he can’t help smiling.

When Pidge finishes the song, the whole room cheers, Keith included. She does a deep bow and says, “That was ‘Scotland the Brave’, for future reference.”

“Future reference needed, play that at every major life event for the rest of my _life_ , ” Lance says.

“Dream on, kid,” Pidge says, but it’s belied by how much she’s smiling as she puts the pipes away.

Allura claps her hands. “Alright, everyone! We’re so glad that Pidge put on a concert for us but we’ve still got work to do! Everyone back to your stations, we don’t have too much longer to go!”

Keith goes back to packing tie-dye tubs. Eventually Pidge finishes breaking down all of her instruments and comes back. He doesn’t say anything to her, just smiles, and she smiles back. Shiro switches the music to Fleetwood Mac and the night plays on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading everybody! Bit of a slower chapter, but fear not - next chapter is when the Klance starts up, so stick with me on this wonderful train wreck.
> 
> Chapter Title from 'Rosalita' by Bruce Springsteen.


	3. On That Hill

No matter what Allura said, they were not actually ‘almost done’ for another hour. It was past midnight when Keith finally trooped back up to his room, with an eight o’clock breakfast the next morning. He’s stayed up way later for way shittier reasons (one night he got sucked into a Wikipedia vortex that started with Area 51 and ended with the Royal Family of the Netherlands), but when he finally heads into the band room after breakfast, he’s still tired.

The various scavenger hunt materials have been hidden, and the other midnight helpers are looking particularly ragged. Allura’s got white-bright eyes and a frantic wave and Keith figures she drank a shitload of coffee. He plops down in his usual seat next to Lance, who’s tapping away on his phone, and starts pulling out his trumpet.

“Question,” Lance says, “do windows have feelings? Or doors?”

He looks up from his phone to blink at Keith with blue eyes.

“What,” Keith says.

“Which do you think has stronger feelings, windows or doors?”

“Doors,” Keith says, “because _you_ walk out of them, and then they feel relief.”

“ _Rude_ ,” Lance says. “Which would win in a fight, a window or a door?”

Kolivan, to the left of Lance, rolls his eyes so far back in his head that Keith wonders if they’ll be stuck like that.

“I think it’s a door, because windows feel too much _pane_ ,” Lance says.

“It’s nothing compared to my current pain.”

“Hey, why don’t you ever come to breakfast with us?” Lance kicks one foot on top of his other knee, resting his trumpet in his lap. He’s got long legs for a guy, and right now he’s wearing jean shorts and flip flops that show off his skinny calves. Keith feels overdressed in his ever-present black jeans and black shirt.

“Uh,” he says, to bide time. “I don’t know. I like to eat alone. Not a morning person.”

“Neither is Pidge, she bit my fingers once last year when I tried to wave at her. You can sit and grump in silence with us, we won’t bite.” Pause. “Wait.”

Keith cracks a smile. Coran strides in the room, so he finally bends down to pull his flip book out of his trumpet case. “I’ll try, but I warned you about my asshole tendencies.”

Lance snorts, bending down too. He’s barely put his trumpet together. “No need to ‘warn’ me, mullet, I could tell the second you walked – “

His hand darts outs suddenly, burying itself deep in Keith’s trumpet case.

“What the hell – “

“What is _this_?” Lance sits up, pulling out a guitar pick with his skinny fingers.

“A guitar pick,” Keith says, flush rising inexplicably on his neck.

“A guitar pick.”

“Yes, is there an echo?”

“Do you play guitar?” Lance asks, holding up the pick.

“Yeah,” Keith replies.

“Are you good?”

“Yeah.”

“Are you just _saying_ you’re good, or are you _actually_ good?”

“Actually good,” Keith says defensively. “And why do you care anyway?”

Lance narrows his eyes at him. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

“I’ll prove it,” Keith says before he can think.

“Oh yeah?” Lance sneers. Keith’s pulse is hot and hard, fingers clenched on his lap, and Lance’s face is hungry. “I expect it, you know, no backing out of this one. No, ‘Oh Lance, I thought we were kidding, I thought you’d forget.’”

“No,” Keith says, chin tipping up. “I said I’d prove it and I will. Once we’re back at school.”

“What, not now?”

“No, not now, I don’t have my damn guitar here – “

“Lance! Keith!” Coran yells. The room is looking at them, Shiro leaning curiously over his drum. “That’s quite enough yapping, we’re about to start! Everyone, measure 24, let’s go!”

Horns up, Keith looks over at Lance. Lance darts his eyes over and blows Keith a kiss from behind his mouthpiece.

Keith’s so angry he comes in a full measure early.

 

* * *

 

 

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #daddyissues #shirostopkinkshamingme**

**Lance:** MAYDAY MAYDAY FUCKING MAYDAY

**Lance:** KEITH PLAYS GUITAR

**Lance:**!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

**Hunk:** Really?? How did you find that out?

**Lance:** He had a guitar pick in his case LIKE A FUCKING GUITAR-PLAYING LOSERFACE

**Allura:** Your insults are particularly shit this morning

**Lance:** WHY IS NOBODY FREAKING OUT? ARE YOU ALL THINKING WHAT I’M THINKING?

**Shiro:** I assume you think he could play guitar for Voltron? Is he good?

**Pidge:** Honestly I don’t care if he’s good, if he even identifies as a guitar player he’s already way ahead of the rest of us

**Hunk:** Seconded

**Lance:** WE CAN’T HAVE KEITH PLAY IN VOLTRON! HE DOES NOT FIT **THE VIBE**

**Hunk:** Lance why would you tell us he plays guitar if you don’t want him in the band?

**Pidge:** OH SNAP SON

**Lance:** CAUSE I WAS FREAKING OUT AND NONE OF YOU ARE FREAKING OUT AND I NEED YOU ALL TO FREAK OUT CAUSE THAT IS WHAT BANDMATES ARE FOR

**Allura:** Lance honey let’s have him play with us when we get back to town and we can figure it out from there, okay?

**Lance:** *crying emoji*

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #whydoesn’tdaddyloveme #shiroareyoualive**

**Shiro:** I’m only not responding cause I’m trying to pay attention to the damn band practice that we’re all supposed to be

**Pidge:** HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

**Pidge:** Learn how to text without looking at your screen grandpa!!!

**Allura:** Haven’t heard Coran that mad since last year’s band camp *crying-laughing emoji*

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #daddygotaspanking**

**Shiro:** You are all dead to me.

 

* * *

 

 

_This_ , Lance thinks as he walks into the band room, _is what it feels like to enter a war zone._

“Where _have_ you been?” Allura shouts as seniors scurry around her and the printer screeches in the corner. “The scavenger hunt starts in an _hour_! Get to your station immediately!”

“Oh my God, okay Mom,” he says, as he all but sprints to where tubs are being loaded on carts.

“I AM NOT YOUR MOTHER, LANCE MCCLAIN!”

“Mama is not having it today,” Pidge whispers from where she’s stuffing drumsticks into canvas bags with sweat beaded on her hairline.

Lance gives a snort and then immediately starts loading tubs. He helped out last year so he’s got a general plan of where things are supposed to go, but Allura has somehow managed to out-elaborate herself again. It’s no longer just the section leaders, but all seniors and a few juniors, including Keith, who was tasked with cutting out the innumerable trivia flashcards and appears to be doing so with military precision.

The general gist, from what Lance remembers as a freshman, is that there are several stations throughout the campus, each of which is staffed by an upperclassman and involves various games or obstacles. There are also free points throughout the campus which they can achieve in between stations – taking pictures with various campus statues, learning trivia about Garrison High, learning all of their team mate’s middle names and birthdays, general shit like that. Lance would write the whole thing off as too cheesy to exist, but every year it gets near-universal acclaim, so here he is, currently wheeling a whole tub of Color-Your-Own-Band-Member. So long, dignity, _adios_ _y_ _au revoir._

“Alright!” Shiro says, standing up on the instructor’s stool and commanding the room’s attention. “Everyone else should be finishing up with dinner soon, so we need to roll out. Stay put until Allura gives you your stations.”

Allura, armed with a clipboard and a laser stare, immediately moves throughout the room, assigning people to either man stations or lead the actual scavenger hunt teams. Lance sidles up to Hunk and says, “Shako-making again?”

“ _Absolutely_ ,” Hunk says. “I’m going for full rooster. Any leftover feathers will be used in my masterpiece.”

“Maybe you can get paired with Shay,” Lance says with a sly wink, which immediately sends Hunk into a flurry of pink cheeks and stammering.

“Lance, don’t,” he all but moans.

“What, it’s healthy young love! You know I ship it, have for years. I am the captain of that ship. Captain of the USS Hunay.”

“You couldn’t have come up with anything better than _Hunay_?”

“Lance, you’re with Keith at the pool balloons,” Allura says, arriving out of thin air with her clipboard.

“ _What_ ,” Lance says immediately, “ _why_ , you know I love the Shakos!”

Allura whips her clipboard around so quickly Lance actually fears for the safety of his jugular. Good God, did she have that thing steel-tipped? “None of the balloons are blown up yet and trumpets have good chops so I need you to do it and _do it now!”_

Lance doesn’t even say goodbye – just turns, grabs Keith from his loner perch, and starts hauling out their assigned cart.

He waits until he’s a good hundred feet from the band studio before he breaths again. “Oh my God, Allura’s come pretty close to killing me before but that one took the _cake_.”

He turns around to see that Keith’s looking pretty confused, big eyes even bigger than usual in his pale face. He’s wearing his usual uniform of all black, hands stuffed in the pocket of his jeans. His fluffy hair hangs in his eyes and Lance gets a violent urge to brush it away. “I missed, like, all of what happened back there.”

“We’re gonna man the pool station. It’s, like, we blow up balloons and throw them in the pool and the teams have to get them out using only pool noodles and shit without getting wet. She sent us together because we’re trumpets so apparently we have the best lungs.”

“That’s not even true,” Keith says, “it’s tuba or flute that requires the most air. If we’re going on that logic, Allura should be blowing up the damn balloons.”

Lance knew that Keith’s been in marching bands before, but how quickly he knew that trivia still makes Lance raise his eyebrows in admiration. “I mean, you’re not wrong, but did you want to be the one to tell Allura that?”

Keith shudders violently, and Lance says, “Thought so,” as they pull the cart to the pool building.

The building’s actually unlocked tonight – probably Coran’s influence – which makes them lock eyes and grin. They haul the cart up to the pool deck, flick on all the lights, and start unpacking the multitude of pool noodles and multicolored balloons.

“All of this planning for the scavenger hunt and she couldn’t have gotten a pump for the balloons?” Keith grouses.

“Don’t say that, next year she’ll come out with a pump and we’ll be given a task that’s even shittier than this one.” Lance scrolls through his phone and makes a noise of approval. “There we go.” He presses play, and _Single Ladies_ fills the room.

Keith looks up through his hair with literal alarm. “What is that?”

“It’s balloon-blowing music! I am Sasha Fierce! Come on, you don’t like Beyoncé?”

Judging by Keith’s face, it’s a firm no, but he dutifully pulls out a balloon and gets to work.

They blow balloons like men possessed, and even though they only need to put about 20 in the pool they fill up at least 30, to have some extras. Lance is lightheaded by the time they’re done, feeling like he just got done with the 50-meter in swim team. They scatter around the pool noodles, spend some time poking the balloons into desirable positions in the pool, and Lance prepares his camera to take pictures of the winning teams.

And they stand and wait for the first group.

And keep waiting.

When several Beyoncé songs go by, Keith asks, “So when are the teams coming through?”

Lance looks at the time on his phone. “We must be towards the end of the hunt, all the teams should be on the move by now.”

“How long does this thing go?”

“Ends around eleven, in the past.”

Keith checks his watch – the kid actually wears a watch, _what_ – and grits his teeth. “It’s barely 8:30 right now.”

Lance gives him an apologetic smile. “It’s cool that you’re here though? Like you just joined the band and we’ve got you pulling long hours. Normally your first year in band you at least get to experience the joy of the scavenger hunt from the other side.”

Keith shrugs, arms crossed in front of his chest. “Nothing better to do. It’s cool.”

Lance nods. He kicks off his flip flops and sticks his toes in the water, getting a delicious shiver from the chill water. He wiggles his toes and pats the deck next to him.

“Come on, it feels great.”

Keith doesn’t take off his shoes, but he does gingerly sit down next to Lance, knees drawn up to his chest and arms resting across his shins.

“So where did you go before this?” Lance asks. They’re gonna be here for a while, might as well get to know the kid.

“A lot of places. Before this I was at a military school in Riverside.”

“Military school, like, for delinquents?”

“No, like for kids whose parents are in the military. Some of them are stricter than others.”

“So your…dad is in the military?”

“My mom.”

Keith is radiating such powerful ‘fuck off’ vibes that Lance thinks if this conversation continues, Keith will either drown him or drown himself, and neither of those options would be fun to explain to Allura. So he switches to the first thing on his mind, which is,

“So what’s your ethnicity?”

Which, _yikes_. Keith turns to him and Lance cringes.

“I know, it just kinda popped out, I’m sorry. I hate that question too. Just chalk it up to douchey curiosity and ignore me.”

Keith blinks at him for a few moments and then turns back to the pool. “My dad’s Korean.”

His voice is low, a bit gravelly. Lance has to strain to hear it over the lapping water and A/C whirring in the corner. He surreptitiously turns down the volume on the music playing from his phone. “Cool, that’s awesome. Totally sweet.”

Keith gives a tiny huff, directed more at the pool than at Lance. “Okay. What about you?”

“ _Cubano_ ,” Lance says. When Keith turns to him in confusion, Lance clarifies, “Cuban. 100%.”

“You speak a lot of Spanish?”

“Nothing but, at home. And some restaurants, cause they’ll give you more if you ask for it in Spanish.”

“Lucky,” Keith says. “I don’t speak any Korean. Little old ladies and all my dad’s sisters will come up and start talking to me and I have no idea what they’re saying. It’s like, if everyone’s going to ask me if I speak Korean I wish I could know at least a little.”

Lance is starting to realize that he may have gotten the prettiest girl at the ball, but he also got the one with the most baggage. Watching Keith, his whole body strung tight even in a totally calm room, he knows this goes beyond teenage emo woes. There’s something deep and painful in this kid, and it wells up in his words and his touches and his dark, dark eyes.

Something twinges in Lance’s chest.

“Well, you’ve got something nobody else has!” Keith raises an eyebrow, still not looking at him. “The ability to pull off fingerless gloves. I mean, shit, I thought those died with Madonna but they look _amazing_.”

“They’re for the motorcycle,” Keith says, but his face doesn’t look quite as upset as it did a minute ago. “I just forget to take them off. I’m not trying to be cool or anything.”

“Bull _shit_ , no kid who plays guitar and wears a leather jacket and rides a motorcycle isn’t trying to be cool.”

Keith rolls his eyes but just smiles.

“So what do you do for fun?” Lance urges. _Come on kid, we’re not done yet. We’re going to bond whether you like it or not._

“I don’t know. Not much. Dick around on the internet. Ride my bike. Play guitar. I like it quiet.”

“How long have you been playing?”

“Guitar or trumpet?”

“Either, I guess.”

“Trumpet since I was seven. Guitar since about eleven.”

_So many riveting details,_ Lance thinks, trying hard not to roll his own eyes, _I don’t even know where to begin._

Then again, this kid is clearly not comfortable with Lance’s questions, and Lance has done nothing but grill him for the past half hour. Maybe it’s time for Lance to open up a little. Two-way street, and all.

“I only started trumpet when I was ten or so. Some music instructor come in and brought his students and gave a demonstration. I wanted to play the trumpet as soon as I saw it. To be that loud, and that badass, and that _necessary_ , the voice of the whole band? I begged my parents day and night for a week until they gave in and got me my first trumpet.”

“That’s cool,” Keith says.

“Not as cool as playing the guitar! Bet that gets you tons of cool points. Doesn’t hurt with the ladies,” Lance says, digging an elbow into Keith’s ribs, his heart suddenly spiking.

Keith doesn’t give him anything, just shrugs. “Not really.”

_Way to avoid the question that I didn’t even know I was asking,_ Lance thinks, and then shuffles his hands under his thighs. He watches the distorted shape of his toes, washed turquoise in the lights. “So the reason I keep asking you about the guitar,” he says, “is because we’re in a band. Like a rock band.”

“Who’s we?”

“Well, me; Shiro plays the drums; Hunk does bass, he’s amazing; Allura plays keys and moonlights on the piccolo sometimes; Pidge does whatever we need her to do, because, as you saw, that is kind of what she does. Mostly sax, though.”

“What do you do?”

“I sing,” Lance says, and can’t help but tip his chin up just a bit, because damn it, he’s proud of this. “I’m the only one who can even carry a tune, and I can do a lot more than just that.”

Keith doesn’t look like he believes him, but that’s okay, because that’s kind of what Lance does: prove people wrong. He’s been doing it his whole life. If he paid attention to every person who didn’t believe him – every choir instructor who told him he couldn’t sing the girl’s alto parts, every uncle who told him he’d give up trumpet after two weeks and his parents had wasted their money, every person who saw this kid and somehow thought they had his number before he even showed them what he was capable of – he would still be in his room, crying quietly so his brother couldn’t hear. And he swore he wasn’t doing that anymore.

_Besides,_ says Lance’s reasonable mind, which sounds a whole lot like Shiro, _you didn’t believe him when he said he played guitar, so let’s hop off the high horse’s dick, shall we?_

“But we don’t have a guitar,” he continues. “We’ve never had a guitar. And for a rock cover band, you kind of need a guitar. We’ve kinda been trading off, between like Pidge and Hunk and Pidge’s older brother, but it definitely wasn’t working. Pidge is the best at it, but she derives no joy from guitar, and a grumpy Pidgeon is not a musically enthusiastic Pidgeon, and long story short, we lost Rockfest last year. It’s like our Battle of the Bands, it happens every year after the winter formal. And we really need to win Rockfest this year, like we are 100 times more talented than the assfucks that beat us and it's Shiro and Allura's last year before they graduate, and to win we need a guitarist. So basically, the whole point of this was, if you could find it in you to maybe humor us and come jam with us sometime and see if you like it, we would be deeply indebted, because trust me, we need you more than you need us.”

Keith looks like he’s never heard this many words strung together in his life. _This is how I am, kid,_ Lance thinks, a little despondently, _might as well get used to it now._

“But,” Keith says, “you have no idea if I’m good or not. You’ve never heard me play. I could be lying about playing guitar at all.”

“Yeah, you could, but you just told me you’ve been playing since you were eleven and I found a guitar pick in your trumpet case, and even if I hadn’t then I’m gonna take you at your word that you’re good because that’s what friends do, yeah?”

Keith’s eyes are purple. Honestly purple, a very deep violet. Lance knows this because Keith’s eyes are so wide it’s like Lance is looking full-on at a pair of headlights. Very pretty purple headlights.

“Yeah,” he says, “guess so.”

Lance grins, fireflies buzzing under his skin. “So what shows do you watch?”

They shoot the shit, Lance idly kicking his feet in the pool, for another fifteen minutes or so, until the first scavenger hunt group finally arrives. They’re clearly fresh from Shako-making, as every person has a fluffy white plume stuck somewhere on their heads (Hira has at least three). Lance stands up, throwing his arms so wide he nearly smacks Keith backwards.

“Welcome, challengers, to the water temple of the Garrison High Marching Band! My name is Lance McClain, trumpet extraordinaire, and this is my humble co-pilot, Keith I-Don’t-Actually-Know-Your-Last-Name!”

“…Kogane."

“Keith Kogane, everybody!” Lance gestures to Keith. A couple kids applaud confusedly. “Your task is to retrieve as many water balloons as possible without getting wet! You have five minutes, go!”

Immediately the kids start running around, shouting incoherently about building a raft out of the kickboards and sending someone on it to get the balloons. Hira, clearly exhausted from a long night of glorified babysitting, just tips her chin in acknowledgment to Lance and sits down heavily against the wall.

“Allura didn’t say anything about a time limit,” Keith says to Lance.

“No, but it makes it more fun, doesn’t it?”

It takes the first group three minutes and forty-eight seconds to find the pool noodles, at which point they spend their remaining time mostly smacking the water in frustration and only gather six balloons. For the second group, Lance puts on ‘The Final Countdown’ and starts doing a play-by-play.

“And Blue Shirt goes for the lunge, dangerous play – swing and a miss, the balloon dances tantalizingly out of reach, watch your fingers, kid! Backwards Ball Cap and Burberry come in for the assist with the kickboards, strong showing, great form, let’s see what they come up with – and it’s a success, two balloons grabbed by the goal-keeper, what excellent team work, what do you say, Keith?”

“They’ve only gotten those two,” Keith says after a pause.

“He’s not the best color commentator in the league for nothing, folks,” Lance says, holding a fake microphone in front of his face. “Alright, four minutes on the clock, let’s see what they come up with – “

Keith looks like he’s drooping, mostly observing Lance through his thick bangs with a combination of irritation and reluctant amusement. Lance flashes him quite a few grins and makes sure to introduce him to as many people as he can, even if Keith can only hold up a hand and grunt.

The third group is Hunk’s, so obviously this calls for choreographed dancing. Lance puts on the ‘Hoedown Throwdown’ from the Hannah Montana movie and he and Hunk bust out the entire thing. The children are so entranced that they barely get any balloons, but they give a full applause when it’s done. Keith’s eyes are about ready to bug out of his head. Lance feels like he needs to pop them back in.

“We have been Brown Thunder, thank you very much!” Hunk cheers. He has, at Lance’s last count, twelve Shako feathers tucked and displayed upon his person.

“Wait, what do we actually _do_?” Yells one frustrated drummer, and Hunk immediately walks over to point helpfully in the direction of the pool noodles. Lance slinks over to Keith, feeling like he needs to check in.

“How did you know that?” Keith asks. “Like, that whole dance?”

“Oh, it was super big in middle school,” Lance says, smiling. “Like, all the girls were doing it. Hunk and I figured that the girls would like us if we knew it too, so we learned the whole thing and got ready to do it at the sixth-grade dance. It was probably the dorkiest thing ever, did not get us anywhere with any girls, and it was half humiliating and half amazing and we’ve remembered it ever since.”

Keith crosses his arms and looks down at the floor. Something like sadness twists his expression.

“Keith, you okay?”

Keith shrugs, mouth set tightly.

“You tired? I know it’s a long night.”

“Yeah, I’m tired.”

“Yeah, you’re putting in real work for sure. Why don’t you go chill, I’ll take it from here. Only a few more groups to go. You can actually head back to the dorms if you want, I can handle it, it’s not so bad.”

“I’m not abandoning you,” Keith says fiercely, which, _whoa_ , okay. “I’ll stay and help clean up. I’m just gonna go…sit in the corner for a bit.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Lance says faintly.

Keith beats a hasty escape, and Lance is distracted by this group doing better than any of the others, managing to pull in multiple balloons at a time with long sweeps of the pool noodles. He cheers and commentates, and when he next looks up, Keith is sitting on the side of the pool, legs criss-cross, looking at the wall with hazy, bleary eyes. _Of course you found the introvert, McClain_ , Lance thinks, feeling a wash of guilt. Despite what Pidge thinks, he knows he’s a lot to handle, he knows that people get exhausted by his presence, and he just hopes that this poor guy isn’t going to leave the band due to Lance Overexposure.

One skinny little boy flute player has been trying for forever to get a balloon which got wedged in the filter. He’s got a look of sheer concentration on his face, swiping it with the pool noodle again and again, and with a final thrust, it pops free.

“Yes!” He cheers, sweeping it over to him, eyes darting up to Keith as he scoops it up. “Did you see that?”

Keith freezes for a moment, but then his whole face opens up in a smile and he gives a thumbs-up. “That was badass.”

Lance’s heart gets a little mushy around the edges. The kid runs cheering back to his team as the buzzer goes off, and Keith turns to Lance, small smile still lighting up his face. Lance waves like a dork to keep the feelings down.

He’s still looking at Keith when Hunk comes up from behind and pushes him in the water, and then there’s nothing but a rush of noise, a spray of bubbles, and finally the stillness of blue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from 'Darkness on the Edge of Town' by Bruce Springsteen. Thanks so much for reading guys; this is our last chapter at band camp, so next chapter they start back at high school!


	4. Talk about a Dream

_Holy shit,_ Keith thinks, _that’s a lot of fucking lions._

He’s standing in the center of the Garrison High campus, totally frozen as students stream around. He knows he’s not helping his new student jitters, he knows people are staring at him, but he can’t help it.

Just… _lions_.

Above the gate: two snarling lion heads around the words ‘Garrison High School’. In the school crest: five lions around a castle gate. Flanking the entrance to every building: marble statues of guardian lions. In the banners lining the walkways: cartoon lions with shitty slogans like ‘It’s cool to be in school!’ and ‘The library is where the cool kids go to CHILL!’ Painted in murals on the brick sides of buildings: multi-colored lions romping in outer space.

In the middle of campus, right in front of him: five gigantic fucking lions, all of them painted a different shimmering color, all of them roaring up to heaven.

It’s hard enough to start a new school as a junior when your new school isn't fucking _nuts_. Keith feels like he’s stepped into the brain of lion fetishist. And good Lord, he did not think ‘lion fetishist’ would be a phrase that ever entered his mind.

The lions, however, have managed to keep the anxiety at bay for a few minutes. Now that he’s adjusted to his new normal surrounded by lions, Keith feels the familiar lung-clench of fear and panic, hyperaware of kids with their eyes on him. He fumbles in his pocket and pulls out the map that he got this morning when he came with his dad to finalize registration.

“I could stay for a bit, make sure you get settled in,” his dad had said.

“Jesus, _no_ ,” Keith said immediately. “God, Dad, no, they’ll pick on me so bad if I’m here with my dad.”

His dad’s strong brows arched up. “Do you really think they’ll pick on you?”

Keith scuffed his boots and hedged the question. No, nobody’s ever picked on him; he looked enough like a juvenile delinquent even at military school that they left him well enough alone. But that was the problem; they left him alone. And Keith’s so awkward to start with that they must’ve assumed he was happy with no friends. And now here he is, seventeen years old, with stunted social skills and little interaction with other humans his age. And the last thing he needs is people thinking that he’s a daddy’s boy, needing him to show him around the new school. He’d rather be seen as an antisocial loner than a baby.

His dad just sighed. “Alright, Keith. Alright.”

Now, Keith looks at the map and picks out one of the places that the helpful admin assistant made sure to circle for him – the band room, out on the edge of campus by the parking lot, where his first period will be for the rest of the year. He hefts up his backpack and trumpet case and walks purposefully, hiding his pounding heart with furrowed eyebrows and a resting bitchface that a girl in his old band described as ‘truly harrowing’.

As he looks down at his boots, he sees lions carved into the brick pathways. _Christ_.

It takes him ten minutes to figure out which one is the band room; it’s in a massive building with yet another lion mural, and he opens up random doors to find a weight room and a storage unit. He’s ten minutes late for practice, according to his watch, and his thoughts are running on a continuous loop of _panic kicked out late horrible why can’t you get there on time late late late_ when he finally yanks open the right door and strides in.

Right away, he’s hit with a powerful sense of familiarity – it’s a different, smaller room than at UC, but everyone’s arranged the same way, and there’s no Coran to be seen so everyone’s just talking. And it’s not just the room that’s familiar; he actually knows these people. Hunk is cracking up in the back row with his trombone friends. Allura is messing around on Pidge’s saxophone while Pidge clearly tries not to over-correct her fingering. Shiro’s on his phone, calmly sipping a tumbler of coffee. Lance, with suspiciously wet hair, tells a story in front of the clarinets and alto saxes that involves a lot of wild hand gestures.

Every one of them turns to Keith and smiles. “Finally!” Lance says, his easy smile lighting up his face. “Thought we scared you off! Where’ve you been, mullet?”

“Trying to find the room,” Keith says, walking over to Kolivan and the trumpets. His anxiety is slipping through him like a waterfall, and he’s fucking smiling. “This campus is huge.”

“Should’ve called us,” Hunk says, leaning over. “We would’ve come and got you. Kidnapped you for your own good.”

“It wasn’t too hard,” Keith says, sitting down and opening up his trumpet case. Kolivan gives him a quick nod and Keith nods back. Behind him, Hunk yells something to Shiro, and Keith can tell even without looking that Shiro rolls his eyes rather than reply.

He knew people in his old bands, sure; they were acquaintances, they got along fine in sectionals. But it’s never been this immediate, this easy. Keith feels like he knows these people more in two days than he has in entire years in his old schools, and he's almost exhausted with relief. He’s got a sanctuary. He didn’t realize until just now how badly he needed one.

Coran finally bustles in the room, holding a massive folder filled with sheet music. “Sorry I’m late, friends! Printer wasn’t cooperating and it was vitally important to get all of our music printed out! We hit the ground running here at Garrison High!”

Keith pulls out his trumpet and starts fitting it together, taking comfort from the familiar motions. The clarinets shoo Lance away and he clambers over the chairs like a spider monkey. “Hey, don’t run away right after practice again,” he whispers to Keith, folding those long legs up when he finally reaches his seat, almost elbowing Kolivan in the face. “Which lunch period do you have?”

“Uh…” Keith thinks back to his schedule. “First?”

“Awesome, excellent. We eat by the theater, underneath the super wonky palm tree that looks like it got whacked by Thor’s hammer, can’t miss it. See you there?”

It takes a second for Lance’s words to set in, and then Keith nods. “Yeah, I’m there.” He has to bite back a smile, bite back on the calm and pleasure and _relief_ that flow through him.

Lance doesn’t bite back his smile. He beams.

 

* * *

 

 

Lance is right; it’s not hard to find the tree. It’s wildly crooked, totally straight until about halfway up when it bends dramatically at a 90 degree angle and continues growing sideways. It does, in fact, look like someone took a massive hammer to it. Keith clutches his lunch tray and walks over, avoiding eye contact with the other students, picking his way through lunch tables and groups of kids sitting on the ground talking. It’s wild to be in a school this casual; back in Riverside, the only time that kids were loose was during PE, and then they generally expressed their independence with hyper-aggressive games of dodgeball.

Hunk, Pidge and Lance are sitting at a tiny picnic table, half-shaded by the palm tree, mostly in the direct sunlight. Hunk sees him first and waves over.

“Hey, you found it!”

“Wasn’t hard,” Keith says, swinging a leg over and sitting down. A combination of happiness and nerves zips through his veins. “It’s the weirdest palm tree on this campus, which has about 500 palm trees.”

“They went really ham-fisted with the California thing, yeah,” Lance says, one hand callously waving his hot dog. “But this is our little slice of heaven. Pidge climbed it last year, right?”

“Matt dared me,” she said. “I had to protect my honor, of course.” Her androgynous fashion sense isn’t limited to band camp, apparently; right now she’s in boy’s cargo shorts, scruffy Converse high-tops and an oversized t-shirt with a faded NASA logo on it. It makes Keith smirk into his hamburger, feeling even more at home. The last two days of band camp were pretty chill, mostly tons of marching, and they all hung out at mealtimes. But that was at band camp, where there were only 80 kids, max; this school has around 500, and a small, shivering part of him figured that there was no way they’d still want to hang out with him when there were so many other, better options available.

But the first thing Lance told him was where they ate lunch. A clear invitation. Keith’s a basket case, but he thinks he’s reading the signals right on this one. They actually want him around, if only just to hang out with at lunch. Which, in Keith's world, isn't much of a 'just' at all.

“So how was your first day?” Hunk asks, ever-present yellow shirt reflecting the bright sunshine as he digs into what looks like home-made risotto.

Keith shrugs. “Fine. Just syllabuses anyway. Do Shiro and Allura not have this lunch period?”

“They do, but sometimes they sit with the other seniors,” Lance sniffs. “It’s alright, I pretend to cry at band practice the next day when they ignore us, Allura has a heart of stone but Shiro’s weak and sometimes he gives me cookies.”

“It’s either hardass or soft, squishy kitty, no in-between with Dad,” Hunk says.

“Speaking of kitties,” Keith says, “what the fuck is up with the _lions_?”

He’s expecting this question to be met with laughter and jokes; instead, all three of them get very solemn.

“The lions,” Hunk says, like a fucking documentary narrator, “just exist. They are just lions.”

“Okaaay,” Keith says. “But, like, is there a reason for it?”

“There is no reason for the lions,” Pidge says. She’s so serious. “The lions just are lions.”

“No, I get that they’re lions, but why the fuck are there so _many_ of them? And different _colors_? Why is there a mural of them in fucking _space_? Is there a story? Did the head of the school have a thing for lions?”

“They’re just lions,” Hunk says. “Accept that they are lions.”

“But _why_? Why lions? Lions aren’t even from around here. Was the first principal a big-game hunter in Africa who felt guilty and put lions up everywhere in penance? Why are there so many of them, why would you pick lions – “

“Keith.” Lance puts both hands flat, very slowly, on the table, and looks at Keith with sharp blue eyes. “Bro. Broseph. Brobama. Brogane. Listen to Lord Lancelot. Don’t worry about the lions. Don’t do it. You will be much happier for it.”

“Why, is there some sordid backstory – “

“There is no backstory at all. You will never get a backstory. You will drive yourself crazy wondering. They are just lions. This school is just filled with lions. The sun rises in the east and sets in the west. J.Lo has a fantastic ass. Coran was in the mafia. Garrison High is filled with lions. These are the indisputable facts of the universe.”

“Wait, Coran was in the mafia? And I just don’t get why they’re _lions_ – “

“Don’t ask about the lions!” Lance half-shouts. “Accept the lions! Embrace the lions! Love the lions! _Never ask about the lions_!”

Keith feels like he’s being silenced about the missing Watergate tapes.

“So I should…not think about the lions?”

“You should think about them in the context of loving them,” Lance says, “and do not worry about their existence or why they were placed here or their purpose on earth. And you should think about how Blue is the best.”

“Bullshit,” Pidge says instantly, “Green Lion for President, the facts are irrefutable.”

“Aww, no, Yellow never gets any love,” Hunk says. “Yellow is _such_ a good lion.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Keith says.

“The big lions, in the center of campus, there are five colors, and the Blue Lion is the prettiest and that’s just facts, you can’t hate me for stating facts!”

“Blue Lion is a Blue _Lioness_ ,” Pidge says with a wicked grin. “They all are. If lions don’t have manes, they’re lionesses. So suck on that biological feminism, boys.”

“Okay, I’ll come with you on the other four, absolutely,” Lance says, “but you can’t tell me that Black is a girl lion, that monster is huge, if it had a penis it would be the size of my _leg_.”

A brief pause washes over the group.

“ _What_ ,” Keith says.

 

* * *

 

 

**Unknown Number:** Hi Keith! It’s Allura, from band!

**Keith:** Hey? How did you get this number?

**Allura:** I have everyone’s number in band, lol! : )

**Keith:** That scares me.

**Allura:** That’s what Lance says, but it’s all for a good cause, I promise.

**Allura:** So I think Lance told you about our little rock cover band and how you might be a good fit because we badly need a guitar player?

**Allura:** Well we’re going to have a first little jam session after school tomorrow in the band room! Do you want to bring your guitar and maybe hang out with us and jam? Do you have other plans? We can reschedule if you need!

**Keith:** No, that’s fine

**Keith:** I’ll be there

**Allura:** *happy face emoji* *cheer hands emoji* Can’t wait! Thank you so much Keith!

 

* * *

 

 

**Keith:** Hi, it’s Keith again

**Keith:** You knew that

**Keith:** I know it’s 2 in the morning but I just realized, do you want me to bring electric or acoustic?

**Keith:** I’m so sorry, I know it’s late, I’m really sorry

**Allura:** No worries! My mouse was running on the wheel so I was half-awake! Either is fine, but maybe electric for this one? Is that too much of a hassle?

**Keith:** No, I can bring either

**Keith:** I’m sorry again

**Allura:** No, don’t even think on it! Sleep well friend, see you tomorrow!

**Keith:** Goodnight

 

* * *

 

 

Keith arrives at practice just as Hunk is playing kill, marry, fuck with salad toppings.

“Okay, so, you obviously marry croutons, and you obviously fuck parmesan shavings, but then that leaves me to kill cranberries and that just doesn’t sit right with me?”

“I think your best bet would be to kill croutons, because then you can still have toast and that’s basically the same thing,” Allura says, head ducked under her keyboard as she plugs it into the amp.

“Croutons are _not_ the same thing as toast, _what_?”

“Hunk’s right,” Shiro says, “croutons have a totally different composition and baking process. It’s really comparing apples and oranges. You can’t kill croutons.”

“Keith’s here, if anyone wants to not be rude and say hi,” Pidge says, eyes locked on her phone.

“Hey guys,” Keith says, one hand on the strap of the guitar case he’s got slung across his back. He’s got the same wide-eyed, slightly-terrified look he usually has around them, but at the moment it looks slightly less terrified and slightly more fond. Lance is starting to find it pretty cute, even though he looks like a Hot Topic emo dream with the all-black and Converse and thick bangs and stupid fingerless gloves.

But it’s okay, because Lance could never be mad at anyone when he’s in his happy place – Voltron practice, and the first one of the year. Lance isn’t doing anything right now besides lounging in Coran’s usual seat but he can taste it in the air, all the unexplored possibilities like lemon and sparks on his tongue. There’s a magic to this, to them making music, and it’s wonderful when they’re fucking around in the Holt’s garage but it feels special in this cavernous space where they usually work with their whole marching band. Now, Shiro’s in the back row like always, but he’s piecing together his drum kit, a beautiful black set that was his Christmas present two years ago from his grandpa and which he painstakingly hauls across town for practices. He’s got a little smile on his face as he lovingly screws in a crash cymbal. Hunk’s standing tall and proud with his bass slung across his chest, tuning it with a practiced hand as he occasionally tabs out a note, the low rich tones pouring from his amp. He’s already tapping his foot to some imaginary beat. Allura’s got her keyboard set up and is pulling over a chair, even though they all know she’ll kick it aside halfway through because she likes to headbang while standing up. Her white hair is pulled to one side in a thick braid, and her glittery Keds and strawberry-pink shirt contrast with the sharp intelligence dancing in her dark eyes, the way that her clever fingers are already picking out intricate chords, locking eyes with Hunk and matching tones with him.

Pidge, at the moment, isn’t doing anything more interesting than noodle on her phone with a neck strap on. But behind her there are three different sax cases, open and ready to be played, and she keeps looking up through her glasses with a little gleam in her smile. _Play aloof all you want, Lady Pidgeon,_ Lance thinks, _I know this is your home too._

Keith looks at all of them with new eyes, nodding slightly as he sets down his guitar. (Wow, have guys with guitars always been this _attractive_? Lance kinda thought this was a straight thing but no, sign him up for guys holding guitars, time to break back out that old Gerard Way poster, did his sister throw that out?) Keith’s eyes keep darting over to Lance, the way he’s not doing a damn thing to help or warm up, and Lance just lets himself smirk. Hell yeah he doesn’t need any help warming up – he’s ready right out the gate, he wakes up in the morning singing arias, all these _plebians_ with their _tuning_ can kiss his prime ass.

(Alright so Lance did vocal warm-ups for thirty minutes in the abandoned bathroom by the wrestling room, can he _live_?)

“So, is this where you guys normally practice?”

“No, normally the orchestra is in here after school.” Hunk’s face twists in disgust. “Which, ew. We normally bounce between garages, whoever’s available. It’s an ad-hoc operation.”

Keith nods, attaching the strap to his guitar. His guitar’s as red as his bike, a deep scarlet Fender Stratocaster that he handles comfortably and familiarly. He looks around for an amp and finds one hidden behind the glock. Lance watches with his legs tucked up under him as Keith plays an experimental note, fiddling with the controls on the amp. He tunes quickly, humming to himself as he goes. It’s the first time Lance’s ever seen Keith not strung up like a tightwire.

The tension returns when Keith finishes tuning and stands up, one hand on the neck and one holding a pick. “So how does this usually work?” He asks, with a touch of aggression. He seems to default to angry when he doesn’t know what to do. His eyes keep flicking to Allura, who gives him an encouraging smile.

Shiro settles easily behind the drums, giving a quick roll on one of the toms, and Allura sits behind the keys. “It’s pretty casual,” Shiro says. “When we don’t have a specific song to work on, we mostly just jam. Whatever you want to do. Is there some genre in particular you like to play?”

Keith shrugs. He looks down at this guitar and plays one power chord, fingers twitching. “I like a bunch of different stuff.”

_So we’re back to the verbosity_ , Lance thinks. Pidge sits cross-legged in her chair, hands in her lap, watching the scene like an owl. Hunk plucks out something soft on the bass, but it’s clear everyone’s waiting for someone to pick something to play.

Lance thinks he’s got something. Might not work at all, might flop, but…

Keith looks like he might like some Fall Out Boy.

“Where is your boy tonight, I hope he is a gentleman,” Lance sings, voice filling the room.

Keith whips his head up, smiling.

“Maybe he won’t find out what I know,” Lance continues, stronger, his own face beaming, “you were the last good thing about this part of town – “

Keith’s guitar comes in fast and sure, driving through the room like a racehorse, and then Shiro comes down on the drums and they’re off.

“When I wake up, I’m willing to take my chances on the hope I forget, that you hate him more than you notice, yes I wrote this for you – for you, so – “ Lance jumps down from the chair, projecting right from his diaphragm so it soars up, above the guitar and drums and Hunk picking out a bassline, bobbing his head and jamming as he keeps tempo.

“You need him? I could _be_ him, I could be an accident but I’m still trying, and that’s more than I can say for him – “

Lance locks eyes on Keith, at his bright, open eyes, so practiced on these chords that he doesn’t even need to look down. He’s _amazing_ , they’re amazing, holy shit, they sound so good –

“Where is your boy tonight, I hope he is a gentleman! Maybe he won’t find out what I know, you were the last good thing about this part of town!”

Allura’s switched her keyboard to the strings setting and it’s wonderful, playing a counterpoint that weaves through and above the guitar and brings such a richness to their sound. Pidge has apparently picked her fighter and is hooking up an alto sax, screwing her mouthpiece together and waiting for something.

Shiro leads them into the bridge, hammering on the snare in a way he never gets to in marching band, and Keith takes the guitar solo as everyone else drops away, picking out the melody with sure fingers. He looks up at Lance when it’s time for the second guitar to harmonize but it’s Pidge who jumps in, playing the harmony on the alto sax in a series of high staccato notes, grinning around her mouthpiece, and Keith grins back as they head into the breakdown. Lance draws in breath, prepares to project over five other musicians and amps.

“Won’t find out – he won’t find out – won’t find out – he won’t find out – where is your boy tonight, I hope he is a gentleman – “

They all race to the final chorus together, losing some of the plot as they all forget how the song ends, but the music stays steady, Hunk and Shiro keeping everyone on beat, and Pidge cuts everyone off but Allura so there’s nothing but the richness of strings when Lance belts out,

“You were the last good thing about this _part_ of town!”

Keith and Shiro give one last chord, and they all fall silent.

Lance’s chest heaves with breath, and he looks around slowly.

Just like he thought – everyone’s freaking out like he is.

“Holy shit,” Pidge says, “we have _never_ sounded that good before!”

“What _was_ that? What even _was_ that? That was amazing! Keith, you’re amazing, oh my God, how did we even sound that good!” Hunk’s hands are fluttering around his face like an old-school fainting maiden.

“You guys are good,” Keith says, which from anyone else would hardly be effusive praise. But he’s grinning as he stands in his power stance, fingers still twitching over the strings.

Lance flails his arms, probably looking like a whole ass dork, but he can’t come up with anything more badass. “You _guys_ ,” he says emphatically. “You guys, we are going to save rock n’ roll. The keys. The sax. The wildly attractive main singer. It’s all here, it’s all iconic, it’s all gonna happen.”

“You sounded good today, Lance,” Shiro says, and he manages to cut straight through Lance’s showboating and make him truly proud. Lance turns his head to smile at Shiro.

“Thanks, Daddy,” he says, and Shiro huffs good-naturedly. “But I wouldn’t sound this good without my band. We have never sounded that good, _ever_.”

“Seriously, who did you guys lose to last year?” Keith asks, sitting down and letting the guitar rest in his lap. “That was quality rock there.”

Ugh, Lance does not want to get into this right now. “Some assholes,” he says, and leaves it at that. “But that’s not going to happen this year, if we sound this good right out the gate.”

“And that’s the stuff we wanted to play, one of the main reasons we wanted a guitar,” Shiro says. “We’ve wanted to play Fall Out Boy and Blink-182 and Green Day since the start.”

“I love Blink-182,” Keith says, and wow, did he just express an opinion about something? Hallelujah!

“Uh, that’s not the only reason we needed a guitar,” Pidge pipes up.

“Here we go,” Lance says with a roll of his eyes.

“You can’t play Bruce Springsteen without a guitar,” Pidge says, like she’s declaring the Word of God.

“Bruce Springsteen?” Keith says.

“Pidge, we’re not playing Bruce Springsteen,” Lance says.

“ _Born to Run_ ,” she immediately fires back. “Clarence Clemons tenor saxophone solo. One of the greatest instrumental solos in modern music. I’ve had it memorized since I was eight and I’ve never played it and you are not gonna take this away from me again, Lance McClain!”

“Bruce Springsteen is that…like, that old guy?” Keith asks.

Pidge throws her hands up and literally walks away. “Heathens, all of you! I can’t even look at you!”

“She’ll be right back, she’s Italian, this is what she does,” Hunk explains.

“She can pretend to be a music purist all she wants, she still knew pop-punk at the drop of a hat,” Allura mused, cocking her head and putting one elbow up on the piano. “We all did, apparently. I haven’t heard that song in _years_.”

Lance slides his eyes over to Keith and finds him intently examining his fret board, not looking at Allura. Keith, feeling eyes on him, looks up, and Lance just smiles slyly. _Your secret’s safe with me, Mullet. I know you want to fight the man. You stay pop-punk trash for as long as your little emo heart desires._

Keith’s lips twitch up.

“So,” he says, “does this band have a name?”

“Of course it does,” Lance says, “It’s Voltron!”

“What?”

“Voltron,” Pidge says, where she’s reappeared from her cool-down walk away from the heathens. She pushes her glasses up on her nose. “It’s a robot, I think.”

“Does this have something to do with the lions?”

“Don’t talk about the lions!” Shiro and Allura immediately shout, and Keith whips around to stare at them, wild-eyed.

“We went over it, don’t worry,” Lance says. “And yes, Pidgeot, Voltron is a robot. It’s a magical robot that fights evil in space and protects truth and justice everywhere. He’s got a magic sword and a shoulder cannon and he doesn’t really talk but if he did it would be in a thick British accent.”

“Lance and I made him up in seventh grade,” Hunk explains. “We were bored at a sleepover. There are drawings.”

“And none of the rest of you had any better ideas for the band name?” Keith asks.

“It’s quite catchy, really,” Allura says. “’Form Voltron!’ It’s a lovely cheer.”

“Not as good as the official Voltron cheer! Circle up, everybody!”

“There’s an official cheer? How many cheers do you need?” Keith says, as everybody slowly converges in the center of the room.

“As many as it takes,” Lance says, as everyone huddles up and puts their hands together. “Now, Keith, I won’t teach you this unless you’re staying. This is top secret, very classified, and I can’t share it with outsiders for security reasons, so I gotta know, are you in?”

There’s so much more to it than Lance is saying but the words are too heavy, too soon, so he hides behind bravado and stares desperately at Keith, pressed close in between Shiro and Pidge, everybody trying not to stare too much at this skinny new kid with the defensive eyes who makes them sound truer and happier and freer than they ever did before him.

Turns out, some things in life are easy. “Yeah,” Keith says with a smile. “I’m in.”

Allura beams, Hunk’s fingers itch with the need to hug, and Lance could burst with this feeling of _good, right, music, potential, power, friends._ “Alright then, it’s very complicated, gonna take quite a lot of brainpower but you have to follow along, everyone on three – “

They all press their hands down, humming lowly, and then throw them in the air and shout, “ROAR!”

“Form Voltron!” Hunk cheers, grabbing Keith in a massive hug.

“Roar? It’s just ‘roar’? You don’t even actually roar, you just say the word?”

“Onomatopoeia is a very complex literary technique, don’t belittle our intelligence – “

“Know any other Fall Out Boy, Keith?” Shiro says, walking back to the drums.

“Yeah, but I was thinking we could play some Blink,” Keith says. “Does anyone know _First Date?_ ”

“ _Do_ we?” Pidge says smugly.

Hunk plugs his bass back into the amp, and a warm buzz fills the room.

 

* * *

 

 

**Group Chat: Voltron #roar #shirostiddies**

**Pidge:** So here’s what I don’t understand.

**Pidge:** Mr. Incredible has superstrength. Elastigirl has elasticity. And they had three kids who between them inherited neither of those powers, but instead about twenty other powers.

**Pidge:** I was on my phone for most of biology last year but I’m pretty sure that’s not how genetics work.

**Keith:** Who is this? Are you meaning to text me this? This is Keith

**Pidge:** Of course I meant to, you’re on the group chat. Look at the top.

**Keith:** How did you get this number?

**Hunk:** pidge, the answer is obviously either radioactive spores or a completely different Punnett square for supers

**Pidge:** But then what about the other superhero kids? Is everything else the same in this AU except for the basics of genetics?

**Pidge:** Nope, not buying. Mr. Incredible cheated on Elastigirl with three different super women.

**Lance:** NO NOT MY CLOSEKNIT FAKE FAMILY, HOW FUCKING DARE YOU COME FOR MR. INCREDIBLE WE’RE THROWING HANDS

**Pidge:** Wake up and smell the infidelity Mr. Rogers

**Keith:** What the hell are you talking about

**Keith:** What are those hashtags

**Shiro:** Ignore the hashtags, Lance thinks he’s a comedian

**Shiro:** I’m with Hunk, it’s radioactivity. The only thing that makes sense.

**Lance:** See Pidgeon, Daddy believes in true love!!!!!!

**Pidge:** There is no such thing as love

**Pidge:** Only lions

**Lance:** Goddamn it woman!!

**Allura:** Pidge we literally only have one rule!!

**Pidge:** ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

**Lance:** Daddy I expect you to punish her

**Shiro:** If the NSA is reading this I would like to clarify that I am not biologically related to any of these people

**Keith:** Is that tag referencing Shiro’s pecs?

**Keith:** Cause I don’t think that’s how you spell ‘titties’

**Hunk:** Oh this is gonna be fun

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the longer wait, my dears - this story got so big in my head that I had to sit down and actually make up an outline (see, there's an actual chapter count now!) So basically I'm going to need you all to read to the end, because it would be very sad if I made an outline for this and then nobody read the whole thing, okay?
> 
> The lions conversation is taken almost verbatim from the first time I watched Voltron, when I kept asking my friend why the spaceships were shaped like lions and when we were going to get an explanation before she snapped and told me to shut up and pay attention to the damn show, there was no explanation for the lions. That was approximately two months ago, and now I'm here, because I'm trash.
> 
> Chapter Title from 'Badlands' by Bruce Springsteen (I believe we're sensing a pattern here...) Next chapter is the first football game, so come on back! Thank you for reading!!


	5. A Little of the Glory

Keith’s only been at this school for one week, but he’s already displayed a knack for walking in at the most hilarious of times.

“Hit me with your best shot!” Hunk shout-sings, leading the entire trombone section in waving their horns in the air like hands at a rock concert. “Why don’t you hit me with your best shot?”

Keith, halfway through the door, freezes. His eyes dart around like he’s in a war zone. Lance rolls his eyes. For a kid who’s apparently been in band his whole life, he’s really bad at handling loud music blaring.

Keith slowly picks his way up to the trumpet section, waving back to a handful of people. “Does Coran care that you guys are playing music?” He shouts over the sound of Pat Benetar.

“No, and he’s not here anyway,” Lance shouts back. “He normally hangs out in the teacher’s lounge before school telling war stories, he gets more on time as the semester goes.”

Kolivan is also late, which is far more unusual in Lance’s mind, but he doesn’t say that.

Keith sighs and sits down after waving at Shiro. “So are you gonna turn it off when he comes back or do we just play over this?”

“ _So_ funny. It’s not even my music anyway, it’s Hunk’s. Ladies from the 80’s is his wheelhouse. Or John Mayer. One of the two.”

“Those are…very different.”

“Hunk is an enigma, wrapped in a mystery, then breaded and deep-fried.”

Once again, Keith cracks a smile. Lance is starting to really enjoy making him do it. It’s like a personal goal, a running tally. _Keith Smiles Today: 1. Let’s go for two before lunch, hit a personal best._

The music stops, and Hunk starts to wail before he sees that it’s Coran. “Coran, you have no respect for the classics!”

“You weren’t even alive when that song came out,” Coran says amusedly, but there’s a tension in his face that Lance can pick up on after three years in this band. Allura watches her uncle with a furrow in her eyebrows, and he flashes her a quick smile as he sets up at the podium.

“Good morning, marching lions, I hope we’ve all had a restful evening. I do have an announcement before we get started today. Our wonderful trumpet section leader, Kolivan, has unfortunately had to transfer schools very abruptly, due to his father’s new job. He will no longer be joining us at Garrison High, and we are very sad to see him go.”

Lance’s heart leaps into his throat. Kolivan is gone? Does this mean what he thinks it means?

“That does mean that the trumpet section leader position is open. We’ll leave the position open for now, but if you are interested then come see me after class!”

Lance feels frozen in his seat. There’s literally only him and Keith who are upperclassmen, there’s no one else Coran could be talking to. He can feel Hunk and Shiro’s eyes on him. But he’s so preoccupied with not turning his head to look at Keith that his neck muscles are locked and straining. Is Keith going to go for it? Is Coran going to give it to him, this fucking _new kid?_ Lance has been in this band since day one of freshman year, he’s paid his dues, he’s improved _so_ much as a trumpet and this is his _chance_ to shine, to play the first trumpet parts and get to be the ace trumpet he’s always wanted to be since he first saw that band play in his middle school auditorium.

A rush of hatred and anger and _vitriol_ towards Keith rushes in him so strongly he thinks he could choke on it.

Followed shortly by guilt, because didn’t he just want to be friends with this kid? Didn’t he just induct him into Voltron, his one true love?

Keith, at the moment, is putting together his trumpet, looking totally unconcerned (from what Lance can tell from the corner of his eye).

Lance shakes it off as Coran tells everyone to get out their flip books. There’s only one way to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that he deserves this over Keith, and that’s to play his ass off.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright everyone, I’m very pleased with our progress on the field show. We’re going to do some more work on _Somebody to Love_ in sectionals, so today I want to spend some more time focusing on our stand music.”

That prompts another cheer. _Is cheering the default response in this band to literally anything?_ Keith thinks.

“We’re going to run through our stand music, starting with the Fight Song and cheers and working our way through to the full songs. Everyone, take a moment to get acquainted with the folders.”

Kolivan gave him a flip folder on his first day, and the first thing he thought was just how fat it was, filled to the brim with songs. He flips through the squat little book now, checking out the songs. Some Keith recognizes – _Hey Song, Get Ready for This, Eye of the Tiger, Final Countdown,_ marching band standards – but there are a ton he doesn’t, or has never played in band. _Pretty Fly for a White Guy. Take on Me. All of the Lights. Shake it Off._ He wonders how they have time to practice all of these songs, much less play them at a game. At least he’ll have the music for all of these; field shows have to be memorized.

“Alright, so let’s do a run-through of the Fight Song. We’ll do half-tempo to start with, trombones watch out for that harmony. One, two, three, four – “

Keith feels something niggling in the back of his head all through playing the fight song. When Coran cuts them off to work with the flutes, he turns to Lance.

“This song feels really familiar.”

Lance has been pretty cold to him this morning, and it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out why. Keith wants to scoff; it’s just section leader, it’s not worth all this drama and posturing. He’s probably not even interested anyway.

(Probably.)

At this, Lance finally turns to him. “Does your dad watch a lot of college football?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That’s where you know the song. It’s the Penn State fight song. We just changed the words.”

“Oh.” Now that he’s said it, that makes so much sense. “But why Penn State?”

At this, Lance finally smiles. “Because of their mascot.”

“What’s their mascot?”

“A nittany _lion_.”

Keith groans, and instantaneously, both of their phones go off.

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #shirostiddies**

**Hunk:** Don’t ask about the lions!!!!!

Keith turns around to see Hunk glaring at him from the back row.

“Oh my _God_ , everyone in this school is insane,” Keith says.

“Now you’re getting it,” Lance replies.

As practices goes on, Keith figures out part of the reason Garrison High is so good; their stand music is _hard_. He was expecting the field show to be difficult – that’s what they’re judged on in competition – but some of these stand songs are way above high-school level songs. He takes one look at some monstrosity called _Karn Evil 9_ and thanks God that they don’t seem to be taking that one on today. _All of the Lights_ is all trombone, Hunk barely getting a second to breathe; _Shake It Off_ has a surprisingly difficult bass drum part that Shiro and Coran have to talk them through. They only get to run through _Word Up_ once before the class time is up but Keith’s shaking with adrenaline at the end, mind still stuck on the fat brass part and sound of the snare drum in his ear. He tries to cool it down; he knows there’s a difference between band geek and Band Geek™, and he doesn’t want to be the kid who’s so excited to play his damn trumpet that he can barely pay attention in the rest of his classes because he wants to be in band practice.

But it’s true; band is the best part of his day (besides lunch). Classes aren’t too hard, and he doesn’t have any extracurriculars. Right now, his whole being is focused on preparing for the first football games. They do early-morning marching practices, everyone tramping around on the field as Coran shouts at them through a megaphone, and Lance, Allura and Shiro have to miss a few for what Keith learns is early-morning swim practice. On the day of the first full instrument run-through, the freshman drummers are bitching and moaning about wearing their drums for an hour while Shiro stays solid like a general, not making a noise of complaint even though he’s been strapped into a snare drum for two solid hours.

(Keith doesn’t miss the sigh he makes when he gets to take his harness off, though).

Shiro and Allura are so involved in preparing the band that they don’t have Voltron practice, either; Keith gets the courage to mention it quickly to Lance one morning, and Lance tells him breezily that Voltron practice didn’t start until after the first football game last year either.

“I’m not worried this year, either,” he says, one eye scanning the field show once again. With Kolivan gone, they’re both pulling double duty on the trumpet parts. Keith is sometimes gasping for air when he’s done with songs. “Besides, we sound like a whole orgasm. We’re gonna be just fine.”

It’s taken a long time for Keith to understand that ‘a whole orgasm’ is Lance-speak for ‘really good’. He’s never met anyone like him; even from the scant hours they spend together, he’s seen Lance in so many different moods, so many different spaces. Lance in a heated debate about _Star Wars_ with Pidge at lunch, Lance hitting on one of the clarinets and forcing Allura to send him back to his seat with a fond head shake, Lance walking a scared freshman through a difficult part in the field show, describing his best tricks and techniques for keeping enough air to handle Freddie Mercury’s vocal runs on a marching instrument. He’s fun to watch on trumpet (and yes, Keith does know how creepy that sounds, thank you) because he’s so _passionate_ ; he doesn’t just play, he puts his whole heart into it. Keith has a sneaking suspicion that he’s just as dorky about this stuff as Keith is, just as desperate for the next band practice, but he doesn’t say anything. He wouldn’t know what words he would start with.

The band marches on.

 

* * *

 

 

Considering the previous amount of disorganization displayed by the Garrison High Marching Lions, Keith was expecting the day of the first football game to dawn like a bloody sunrise. Instead, it’s shockingly chill; they run through the show several times during morning practice, with Coran beaming, flanked by Rolo and Nyma.

“You’re doing absolutely wonderfully! Queen is beyond honored with your tribute! Keep it tight tonight and we’ll knock their socks off!”

Keith gets through the rest of the day in anxious agitation. He arrives at the band room right after school, expecting one again to find pandemonium, only to find just Lance and Hunk and a few freshmen, everyone dicking around on their phones.

Hunk looks up. “Keith! My man. How goes it?”

“Uh…it goes?”

“You excited to march?”

“Yeah, absolutely. Are we…?”

“We’re not doing anything for a while,” Lance says. “Call time’s not until 6. You got your uniform?”

Keith hosts up his bag. “Yep.”

“Cool.” He rises to his feet and stretches, languid and sinewy like a cat. His baseball shirt rises briefly up, showing the jut of his hipbones and a sliver of smooth, brown skin. Keith bites down hard on his lip and has no idea why. “You want Taco Bell or Subway?”

“Subway, I guess?”

“Cool, you can leave your uniform here. Let’s roll, I’m starving.”

He ambles out the door, flashing Keith a grin. “We can stay and eat the school’s food, or we can go out and get dinner where we want,” he explains as they want into the adjacent parking lot. “We’ll go out and eat, we just gotta pick up Pidge, she was doing her thing at the university today.”

“University?” Hunk’s humming to himself, walking up to a tired yellow sedan, beat-up and well-loved. He opens it manually, giving the steering wheel a loving pat as Lance swings into the front seat and Keith climbs in the back.

“She practices with the orchestra for Cal State Long Beach,” Hunk says. “It’s _so_ cool, she does all these fun solos with weird instruments and takes personal instruction from the professors and it’s basically way badass. The school lets her do extra tutoring on the weekends so she can miss class and go to orchestra rehearsal cause she reflects well on the school or something.”

Outside the window, they cruise through downtown Long Beach, people drinking on restaurant patios in the Friday afternoon light, sunshine sparkling off the sea in the distance. Keith feels something warm swell inside of him. “That is badass.”

Lance grins, his clever fingers switching stations on the radio like a DJ. Hunk finally slaps his hands down, gentle drumbeat thudding through the shitty speakers.

Hunk’s clearly familiar with the route even if Keith has no idea where they are, and he rolls up in front of a stately marble building on the outskirts of campus. Pidge is standing in front, a green ball cap shading her eyes from the sun, popping bubblegum.

“Madame Pidgeon,” Lance says grandly, as she walks around and climbs in besides Keith.

“Gentlemen,” she says with a smile, tilting the cap up and grinning. “My noble chariot arrives again.”

“What’d you play today?” Hunk says, swinging the car around.

“Mendelssohn. Organ.”

“Wait, I _love_ Mendelssohn,” Hunk says. “Wait, I think I’ve got some stuff of his on my phone – “

“Please, God, no,” she says immediately. “Oh my God, no. Tribe Called Quest, please.”

Keith tries to stifle his smile and fails.

With these people, Keith didn’t know they were capable of quiet and chill, but that’s exactly what dinner is. They hole up in a Subway on the main university drag, sitting in a back booth and steadily eating their way through subs and little bags of chips. Hunk tells a long-winded but funny story about something that happened in his shop class, Pidge chimes in occasionally, and Lance mostly lolls his head back against the seat, sunshine splashed across his face. Keith rarely speaks, but it’s a breath of fresh air. His introvert heart gets exhausted easily, and it’s nice to know that these guys can just hang without all the blustering and memes. Hunk catches his eye when Keith’s smiling to himself about something and gives him a massive, warm smile.

Pidge looks down at her phone. “5:45. You guys ready?”

Lance’s head rolls over, popping open one blue eye. That smirk makes his way onto his cheeks. “ _Born_ ready.”

“Thought you were born at lunchtime,” Hunk says as they clamber out of the booth. “Your mom always says you came just in time for your first meal, says you cried until you got fed.”

“Couldn’t resist a chance to run his mouth,” Keith says, and Lance scoffs.

“Well you couldn’t resist a chance to…wear that shitty haircut!”

“You can do _so much better_.”

“Ugh, I know, hit me up when the game starts, I’ll be good to go by then.”

When they arrive back in the band room, things are heating up; instruments getting hauled out, freshmen practicing in the corner, Allura supervising the wearing of Shakos. Feeling the electricity in the air, Keith ducks out to put on his uniform. In Keith’s mind, the whole thing is a necessary evil. If he has to wear this goddamn thing to play his trumpet, then so be it; he’ll wear the bibber, and the jacket, and the gloves, and the dorky black shoes, and even the fucking shitass Shako. He sighs and looks at himself in the mirror for a second, psyching himself up. _It’s not humiliating if everyone’s wearing it._

Except when he walks back out into the room, he forgot the best part: _everyone’s wearing it_. And there’s a thrill to that, to the uniformity and precision of it. The Garrison High uniforms are all black and silver, sleek and fairly modern, looking more military than others Keith’s worn, buttons in the front and stitching on the arms and epaulets on the shoulders. He smiles as he walks up, taking in Hunk’s broad shoulders under the jacket, Pidge like a tiny little soldier with her game face on, Shiro comfortable and at home in his uniform as he tunes drums, Allura like the most capable general in the world with her slim fitted uniform, white hair in a stunning braid down her back. They’re one band, one team.

“You cool, cowboy?”

Lance walks up, Shako tucked under his arm, eyes bright. Have his shoulders always been that wide? It looks like the stitching on his chest stretches out farther than Keith remembers. The black is striking against his dark skin, makes him look tall and slender like a whip.

“What?” Keith says, dumbly.

Lance rolls his eyes and pats Keith on the back. “I know I look good but try to keep it together, this is a family show.”

“Alright people!” Coran’s voice cuts over the din. “Battle stations! Shakos on, instruments on! It’s show time! ALLURA!”

“Coming!” She yells, and then they’re all lining up, drumline in the front, two by two marching pairs, Allura dashing around and adjusting positions with her piccolo tucked into the front of her jacket. When she places Lance and Keith together she gives them a squeeze and a wink and runs back down the line. Pidge turns around and pokes her head down the row, Shako plume sticking out like a deranged chicken.

“What team?” She yells down the line.

“WILDCATS!” Yell the Garrison High Fighting Lions.

“Thought we were the lions?” Keith whispers.

“Don’t ask about the lions,” Lance says, fighting back a smile. Allura dashes by again, running up to her spot with her piccolo in hand, and Keith can’t help his grin, because it’s fucking showtime.

“Alright, Shiro, take it away!” Coran yells.

The snare drum bursts like a gunshot, the whole band raising instruments in one synchronized snap – _one and two and one two three four –_

The drumline pounds out a cadence, snares and tenors and basses filling the tiny room, and they march forward as one unit, Keith’s ear trained to the hi-hat cymbal in front, Lance to his right, both of their horns held at marching rest against their chests. The walk from the band room to the football stadium is short, but there’s already a crowd, lined up and cheering as the band marches out. Rolo and Nyma are in front, each holding a baton, just before Shiro and the other snares. It’s still broad daylight but there’s a hint of sunset in the horizon, grayness and dusky blue, and the lights shining down on the green field look magical, hinting at the promise of a clear night and the roar of the crowd.

(What? Keith’s from Texas. He can appreciate Friday night lights.)

None of the rest of the band play; this is just the drumline, propelling them all forward as one unit. Keith can detect a slight hesitancy on the part of some freshmen drummers, a few counts that are just a hair behind, and knows that this is something Shiro will be working on in sectionals. They walk through the fence and onto the field, the crowd cheering them on, way bigger than any other school Keith’s attended. As they march forward, Keith catches a glimpse of his dad, sitting at the very end of a row by himself, leaning forward to watch Keith. He’s glad that he can’t break formation, so he doesn’t have to deal with the question of whether to wave or not. Waving to your parents is dorky, right? He’s seventeen, he doesn’t need to wave to his parents anymore.

The drumline lead them up to the section of stands that’s roped off for them. They march up one row at a time, just like they practiced in morning rehearsal, marching in place until finally the tubas make their way to the back row. The drumline ends the cadence with a final cymbal crash, and Rolo and Nyma dismiss them to parade rest. The second they do, Lance turns and starts waving furiously at the crowd. Keith peeks around and sees a whole family waving ecstatically back, two parents and a bunch of other kids, cheering and whooping from down by the 50-yard line. Pidge leans over the railing to wave at her parents, Hunk waves his trombone in the air, even Shiro waves at an older man who Keith assumes is his grandfather.

Keith, without thinking about it, sets his trumpet down and waves at his father. It takes his dad a moment, but then he waves back, twice as hard. Keith ducks his head quickly, hiding a flush behind his bangs.

“So what’s up with the football team?” He asks Lance, a bit too loudly. “Are they good?”

“Depends on your definition of good,” Lance says, putting his trumpet on the seat behind him and taking off his Shako.

“Winning games.”

“Then, no, they’re not good. They are fun to watch though!”

“So I have to watch bad football all year.” Everything else notwithstanding, Keith would probably not be a football fan on his own; however, he grew up in Texas and has so far spent every Friday night of high school at a football game, so you know. If he has to watch it, he might as well enjoy it.

“No, you’ll watch highly entertaining football from a team who is very good at being bad!” At Keith’s incredulous expression, Lance continues, “Most of the fans are here for us, to be honest. Family members and stuff. It’s a big enough town, they can see crappy football anywhere. We’re an award-winning marching band, so we’re kind of a big deal.”

Keith rolls his eyes. The announcer’s voice comes over the speakers – “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to another night of Lions Football!” – and the night starts in earnest. The football teams come out to applause and boos, the band plays the national anthem (Keith’s got it memorized at this point, and apparently so does everyone else; he can see Allura with her eyes glued to some birds on a telephone wire, not even watching the music), and then there’s the coin toss and the game begins.

Keith’s been to a lot of football games, but there’s something about the first one of the year that’s just a bit magical. The buzz of the crowd, laughter from people standing by the hot dog cart, announcers calling out key players. He’s never started the year at the same school, so this is the third time that he’s learned a totally new football team; senior QB, freshman wide receiver, the coach with his headset taking this high school football match way too seriously. He was dreading it, the constant reminder that he hasn’t been here and he probably won’t be here next year, the representation of his impermanence; but right now, it’s more of a minor hurdle than a cause for angst. Because sitting here, surrounded by the constant chatter of the band, his trumpet at his feet, he knows that eventually, it’s not going to matter that he doesn’t know the players, because there’s something here he knows better than anyone –

“First down!” Coran yells, as the team pulls a first down out of their ass. “Number eleven, let’s go!”

The whole band jumps to their feet and Keith flicks to number eleven in his flipbook. _Apache,_ nice.

“One, two, three, four!”

The trumpets blare on the staccato parts, the rush and noise filling Keith up from the inside and making his notes high and clear. He’s soaring, he knows this song, he’s played it in every pep band –

Except when they come to the drum breakdown, and the entire band en masse starts dancing, spinning in a circle where they stand.

Keith stands flabberghasted – literally, the _entire band_ is dancing – until Lance elbows him from where he’s halfway turned around and hisses, “Spin!”

Keith spins, no idea what he’s doing, and almost misses his cue on the next set of notes, and then they’re dancing _again_. The crowd cheers, for what Keith doesn’t understand, but everyone besides the drumline dances in a little circle, waving one hand above the air like they’re swinging a lasso. Did they go over this in practice? Even the _tubas_ are dancing.

As soon as they finish, Lance is turning to him. “What was that?”

“What was _that_? Do we dance?”

“How do you not know the Apache dance? Who doesn’t know the Apache dance?”

Pidge stands up on her bench to look at them, eyebrows raised high above her glasses.

“There’s a dance to this song?”

“ _What_? Of course there is! Oh my God, what did they teach you in military school?”

Keith, suddenly aware that the whole band is listening, sits down and glares up at Lance. “Stop shouting about it, Jesus. It’s just a stupid dance.”

Lance, still standing, looks down at him with a weird expression. Keith chooses not to try and decipher it.

It gets worse. At the first timeout, Coran calls number 13, _Pretty Fly for a White Guy._ Lance whoops and literally abandons his trumpet to run down to the drumline. As Keith watches in bafflement, he pulls out a beaten-up cowbell and a tenor mallet that’s seen better days, and the whole band screams again.

“Don’t screw it up this time, Lance!” Hunk yells.

“I will bring honor to my ancestors!” Lance yells back.

Coran grins and counts them in, and at first it’s just the drumline – and then Lance starts _bellowing_.

“Give it to me, baby!”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh!” The band screams back.

“Give it to me, _baby_!”

“Uh-huh, uh-huh!”

“ _Give it to me, baby!”_ He throws his chest out and crows it.

“UH-HUH, UH-HUH!”

“And all the girlies say, I’m pretty fly for a white guy – “

“Horn, Keith!” Hunk yells down, and Keith barely manages to snap his trumpet up in time for the first note. He keeps looking at Lance to come join him, but he stays down there, marking time on the cowbell for some reason, dancing in front of Shiro and generally being a total ham. It’s bewildering, it’s embarrassing, Keith can’t pay attention to this awesome song and the tubas behind him. There are flashes too, everybody raising their bells in two quick jumps on the twin notes, and Keith misses all of them, and when he finally catches on he’s late. He plays extra loud to make up for Lance’s absence, and at the end of the song, when everyone finishes their final note, Lance hammers on the cowbell for two extra measures and the band bursts into cheers again.

Why don’t these people ever stop fucking cheering?

When Lance makes his way back up to his seat after the song, he’s met with high-fives and back slaps like an athlete coming off a star play. “You finally redeemed yourself!” Hunk says.

“I endured an entire summer of teasing about this, no way was I going to fuck it up!” Lance literally climbs over Keith’s legs to get back to his seat, and it irks Keith beyond reason.

“What was that?” He asks harshly. “Redeem yourself?”

“I forgot the cowbell solo, last time I played that. It was _horrible_ , the whole _point_ is a cowbell solo but I just blanked. Nobody let me forget it, this whole band holds grudges like my twice-divorced aunt.”

Keith doesn’t know what to say; he’s so consumed by frustration and anger and embarrassment, all of which he knows he has no right to feel. He doesn’t understand how this one band can have so many inside jokes, so many traditions. “Why didn’t we go over that in practice?” He says instead, and it comes out snappy and petulant and way too strong. Lance’s eyes widen and he leans back, just a bit.

“Not really much of a need, I guess? I mean, you just scream the words?”

_I don’t know the words_ , Keith thinks desperately, and thanks God when there’s another first down and Coran calls another song. He can barely play, too hyper-focused on every person around him, everyone in this damn band. Their innate cultural knowledge is grating on him like a harsh wind, chafing at his skin. He knew he wasn’t a social kid; but did he really miss out on _this much_ basic knowledge?

It’s a relief when halftime draws closer and Coran rallies them to prepare for the field show. Keith’s not gung-ho on marching; for him it’s just an avenue for music. But when he puts on the Shako and they start gathering their equipment, he can feel the stress and clench slide away from him. It’s marching. No surprise quizzes about popular songs that Keith’s never heard of and every other seventeen-year-old knows. No cowbell solos. It’s Queen, and it’s hard, and it’s got a lot of trumpet.

Lance clearly tries to make eye contact, wish him some sort of luck before they start, but Keith chooses to use the pounding drums as an excuse to not look over. Shiro marks time as they get into starting positions, the announcer’s voice coming over the speakers –

“Ladies and gentlemen, this year we bring you a very special show for halftime…we’re taking you back this year, to one of the greatest bands of all time…”

The first brush of turf against his shoes. The sweat under the Shakos. The lights burning on his eyes, glinting off his trumpet.

Coran raises his hands, and horns go up.

“Please welcome – the Garrison High Marching Lions – playing the music of _Queen!_ ”

One – two – three – four –

The opening notes of _Fat Bottomed Girls_ rip through the stadium. And it’s good, it’s so good – the drums thudding in front, the trombones coming in to back it up, Keith could play this song in his sleep, he could take on a whole army with his bare hands to this song and _win_. They march on _Bohemian Rhapsody_ , switching formations into a massive G, Keith with his body turned directly forward, trumpet blaring out to the crowds.

Keith feels like he’s flying, because as much as he hates this band right now they’re so good. The _Bohemian Rhapsody_ part is complicated, saxes warring with horns, cymbals rushing in, the whole song such a tightly orchestrated and synchronized production that comes off like a rush of gleeful sound. They all come together on the end of the song, marching the G forward – even Shiro, still playing the snare perfectly in time while he’s hustling – and Lance is right there with him, not missing a beat or a step, bronzed cheeks flushed with the effort.

There’s a drum breakdown while they switch positions again, and this is Keith’s favorite part of the song, and it’s not even his. There’s no pit in this band, so the high bell parts in _Somebody to Love_ are taken by a beautiful and complicated flute-clarinet part. Light and tinkling, it comes off as soft to anyone who doesn’t know just how hard these guys are playing their instruments. Shay and Allura are red in the face and playing their absolute asses off. Keith comes in for the chorus, sharing the melody with Pidge and the saxes while they switch into their final formation. Keith forgets for half a beat, can’t remember if he’s going left or right at a 30-degree angle, but Lance gives him a quick nudge of his chin while playing and Keith moves smoothly into his spot.

God save them but they make a lion’s head for _We are the Champions_ , everybody but the tubas and drums playing the same melody, and it’s loud and bright and cleansing. Keith can pretend like he sees his dad out there in the stands, beyond the color guard waving sparkly silver flags, twirling under the bright lights. They stand their ground and close it out with a blast of sound, a buzzing snare roll, and a note that holds so long that Keith’s dragging air up from the bottom of his lungs –

And then Coran cuts it, and the crowd roars.

Keith wants to a) collapse on the ground in relief or b) jump for joy, but he can do neither. He stands perfectly still, trying too hard not to smile, while the cheering dies down. Rolo and Nyma cue Shiro, and the drumline plays a cadence to march them off. They hold it together until they make it back to the stands, and then as soon as the drums stop, Lance is whooping.

“ _Crushed_ it! That’s how it’s done! All hail the Marching Lions!” He gives Keith a double-handed high-five, gives one to the freshmen, gives one to the trombones behind him, chest bumps with Hunk. Down below them, Pidge and Allura are cheering with their respective sections.

“We sounded great,” Keith says.

“Hell yeah, we sounded great! We sounded so good, we saved the world! We cured cancer! We cleared Coran’s criminal record!”

Keith just smiles, letting him talk, words coming so easily to this boy, flowing like quicksilver. Keith has to drag up words, pay for them with rising heartbeats and blood from his lungs. Lance has words to spare, he could clearly talk for days. Keith wonders what that’s like.

He runs to the bathroom and tries to decompress. Football games, fun as they are, have always been hard for him; he starts getting antsy around the third quarter, longing for a chance to go into his quiet dark room and recharge. And with this band, it’s not a simple matter of just playing the next song when it’s called; there’s all the little things, traditions that he doesn’t know he doesn’t know. He looks at his eyes in the dirty mirror above the sink and sees how wide his eyes are, how pale his cheeks are against the black of his uniform. _Two more quarters, Keith. Almost done._

At the end of the third quarter, the ref calls a time-out for no reason that Keith can identify. Coran climbs to the top of his stand and yells, “Number nine, children!”

There’s the usual amount of band cheering, but it feels less riot-inducing for some reason, more gentle and pleased.

“Hey, bud,” Lance leans over, and Keith looks up in surprise. “So this song has singing too. It’s a band tradition.”

Keith looks down. _Hey Baby._ “What are the words?”

“They’re super easy,” Lance says. “It’s like – just follow along, I’ll sing them, you can catch on. It’s super fun, I promise. Just…wanted to give you a head’s up.”

Keith’s face is slack, locked on Lance’s nervous, kind smile. _He noticed. Oh shit, he noticed._ But…he _noticed_.

Coran counts it in, and Keith can tell the difference right away – rather than standing in place, everyone’s swaying lightly, and the tubas and trombones, the only ones playing right now, turn left and right, the whole crowd clapping along.

“Hey – hey baby!” The whole band sings, Lance turned slightly towards Keith so he can catch the words from his mouth. “Ooh! Aah! I wanna knoooooow – if you’ll be my girl!”

People aren’t just singing the lyrics, they’re singing them to each other. Lance turns around and sings it directly to Hunk, who’s paying the trombone with half a smile, Pidge sings them her saxes, Shiro and Allura sing them to each other. The whole band is in on it, and the whole crowd too, and Keith doesn’t sing along but he doesn’t know that he really could right now. Words feel tough right now, feel heavier than usual.

But it’s a beautiful trumpet part, when he finally plays after a solid minute of singing. It’s high and wonderful, soaring above that danceable bass line. Everyone plays almost the same melody; Pidge is still dancing a little where she stands, fingers flitting easily over her keys. Coran conducts with little effort, eyes still watching the field, though it’s clear that there’s a timeout just so they can play this song. Keith can see his dad in the stands, clapping in time.

Lance sways next to him the entire time, still playing his trumpet, and Keith gets a passionate rush of frustration towards this kid. But then it passes, quickly as it came, and Keith just…plays. Lance brushes against him with every third sway, and Keith…doesn’t hate it.

Keith keeps playing.

The Fighting Lions lose (in truly spectacular fashion, as Lance predicted). As soon as they’re back in the music room and Keith drops his trumpet off and changes, he ducks out. Lance is just standing up, phone in his hand and a shout to Hunk halfway on his lips, when he catches Keith’s eye. He opens his mouth – probably to invite Keith out to eat, or something nice like that – and Keith just smiles at him and tips his head. It’s all the thanks he can muster right now. And he’s gone before he can see Lance’s reaction.

His dad’s waiting by his motorcycle when he makes his way out through the crowded parking lot, flush with football players and families. He grins and gives Keith a hug, sweaty and gross as he is. “You did amazing, son. This is a great band, you guys sounded wonderful.”

“Thanks, Dad. It was…” He brushes his bangs off his forehead and manages a smile. “It was fun. Yeah.”

His dad smiles, beard and rugged face contrasting with his gentle nature. “You hungry? I could make a late dinner.”

“No, I ate before. If you…if you could take my stuff back, I think I might just go for a ride. You know.” He makes some vague gesture.

His dad, because he’s not an idiot, correctly interprets it as _I’m gonna go clear my head because I am exhausted by social interaction and a high school football game is three hours of social interaction._ “No problem, Keith. Drive safe, okay?”

“Yeah, course.” He gives his dad his backpack and swings onto his motorcycle. He thinks he can see the spill of band kids coming out of the band room just as he puts his helmet on.

He kicks the bike on and roars out of the parking lot.

He drives down to the main drag, hitting a stride in the center lane, neon shop windows becoming blurs in his vision, autumn wind tearing at his leather jacket. Two competing thoughts rush in his head, one right after the other, all the way home.

_He noticed. He thinks I’m such a fuckup. I can’t believe he noticed._

_But he noticed. He noticed, and he tried to help. Can’t believe he noticed me._

_He noticed it._

_He noticed me._

_He noticed it._

_Lance noticed me._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Howdy friends! We're only five chapters in and I've already lost the plot on a posting schedule, which is...longer than I thought I would last, really. So, thank you for being patient with my trash self.
> 
> Promise not all chapters are going to be this involved/detailed about single football games. I just figured for the first one I should write the whole thing, especially for readers who've never been in high school marching band.
> 
> Click [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozjg4gKM9Og) and [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4DiyNJkdNkE) for the two pieces I used when doing Garrison's Queen show. (For the closer, pretend there's no pit and no guitar solo.)
> 
> Next chapter: Voltron practice, high school shenanigans, and the return of the group chat! Thank you so much for reading, you are all beautiful beautiful creatures and may your days be full of joy and perfectly brewed cups of tea!
> 
> (Chapter Title from 'Glory Days' by Bruce Springsteen)


	6. Ain't No Sin to be Glad You're Alive

Lance usually has trouble falling asleep after football games. He can’t help it; he’s an emotional sponge, he’ll suck up the emotions of everyone around him, and a high school football game is _nothing_ but emotions. By the time they’re done he’s usually shaking with adrenaline and excitement and hormones (he knows that doesn’t make sense, okay, but it is what it is).

Pidge and Hunk know this, and are generally more than happy to indulge him. After the first game, they head to his favorite taqueria, and then after barbacoa and sour cream, they hit the all-night pie place that reminds Lance of a cheesy Americana diner in some crappy road trip movie. He orders his perennial favorite, apple, and the three of them start with a blow-by-blow of how badass the Garrison High Marching Lions were and then move onto general venting and chattering and the Kirk vs. Picard debate that Pidge and Hunk still love to shout about despite the fact that they’ve been having this exact same argument since the first second that they met (Pidge goes for Picard, Hunk goes for Kirk, Lance goes for whoever gives him a bite of pie). They finally part ways around midnight, because Lance has Saturday morning swim and Hunk has Saturday morning robotics club and Pidge probably has early morning flugelhorn or whatever the hell she’s doing right now (though it should be stated that one time she used that as an excuse to avoid them all and read Korrasami fanfiction for eight hours straight, which Lance likes to keep as his trump card in case the little gremlin ever gets smart).

His family’s mostly asleep by the time Lance gets home, but his littlest sister is still up and wants to play with Lance, an elaborate game that ostensibly involves Lance’s trumpet but is really about the fact that Lance is better at hide and seek than the rest of his siblings. Lance’s poor mom is nearly falling asleep on the couch, so Lance plays with Charo for a solid half hour before his mom rouses and herds them both to bed. After a solid twenty minutes in the bathroom with his nightly skincare routine, Lance tiptoes into his bedroom, making sure not to wake up his brother Alex. He crawls into bed, pulls the covers up to his neck, and rolls onto his back to stare at the ceiling with its stick-on stars from when he was six. Generally by this time he’s already halfway asleep, all the emotions leeched out of him and spilled onto the winds, out to sea by now.

Tonight he’s still wide awake. Because he’s thinking about Keith.

Lance isn’t an idiot, alright. He can tell an introvert when he sees one. He can tell social anxiety when he sees it. He’s not sure why Keith was so surprised that he noticed the guy was having a really hard time with some of the songs. _Is it because nobody’s ever noticed? Or cared if he was okay?_

A wave of pity and sadness flows so fast through Lance that he has to squeeze his eyes shut.

Nobody ever told Lance any of that stuff; any of the dancing, or singing, or the whole institution of _Hey Baby_. He figured it out, just like everyone else figured it out, and by halfway through his first game as a freshman he was already aware that there were going to be a bunch of new things to learn in this band. Pidge’s older brother was section leader before her and he still didn’t tell her anything, because _everyone_ just figures it out.

But that clearly isn’t working with Keith.

Keith, with his angry glares and barbed comments and the way he plays his trumpet like it’s a gun and he has to defend himself with it against the world. He’s got armor six inches thick but bruises like a peach, and it's clear as day that Keith contemplated punching him in the face no less than five times. He’s not exactly making it easy for friends to come waltzing in.

But Lance is pretty sure he’s got his kid’s number. He’s been watching. (Keith’s fucking cute, sue him.) He saw how happy he was, up on some diving board, giggling about Shiro and Allura. He saw him with that freshman flute player at the pool, so sweet and supportive. He saw him just tonight, when they finished playing, how fucking stoked he was to play with this band in particular. Lance and Keith might be serving fire-and-water-opposites realness, but Lance is pretty sure that he’s gone full Sherlock on this bitch and he knows what’s up.

Underneath all the thorns, Keith just wants to be included. Which is all Lance has ever really wanted, too.

So whether Keith wants it or not, he’s got friends. Lance will meet him wherever he’s at – whatever introvert recharging moments he needs, whatever snark and venom he wants to throw, whatever explanations he needs to figure out how this marching band works – as long as this kid never has to feel on the outside again.

(Doesn’t hurt that his stupid mullet looked really cute curling under his Shako today, or how tiny his waist looked under the marching jacket, or that he’s one of the best trumpet players Lance has ever seen and maybe that turns his crank? He didn’t think it did but watching Keith play _Fat Bottomed Girls_ was kinda amazing?)

Lance rolls over, pulls down his sleep mask, and forces himself to sleep.

 

* * *

 

 

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #daddyslittlelions**

**Pidge:** Alright so I got permission from the mothership, first Voltron practice tomorrow after school at mi casa

**Pidge:** YEET amirite kids??

**Keith:** Are practices usually decided at 3 in the morning?

**Pidge:** Well no but you’re awake so maybe they should be!

**Keith:** I was absolutely not awake. I’m just a light sleeper

**Hunk:** gqaoesvhuioa;srnkl

**Pidge:** Why yes I totally agree, Chopped Junior is the greatest show ever invented by mankind

**Hunk:** hwatthe duck

**Pidge:** Almost there

**Hunk:** what the ffuck

**Pidge:** There we go

**Hunk:** why are awake??

**Shiro:** Pidge I promise, you do not need to practice this late at night, and you definitely don’t need to text us this late either

**Pidge:** I wasn’t practicing, I’m doing schoolwork dad

**Allura:** you are an evil creature

**Pidge:** Oh please, you stay up all night talking to your mice anyway

**Allura:** They miss me during the day and I was 100% ASLEEP before this chat started buzzing like Lance’s ‘personal massager’ he brought to band camp last year

**Hunk:** lol good times

**Keith:** Um

**Keith:** Lance?

**Keith:** Do you

**Keith:** I swear I didn’t mean for them to tell me

**Pidge:** Brah lance isn’t coming tonight. Boy won’t see this chat until the morning

**Pidge:** Once the sleep mask is on and the light samba is playing he’s out for the count

**Pidge:** Say whatever you want

**Allura:** go to sleep pidge!!! That’s all we want to say!

**Pidge:** no can do mom, I’m writing a full band version of ‘I’ll make a man out of you’ and I’m only four measures in

**Shiro:** Katelyn Holt I swear to God.

**Shiro:** Go to bed right now.

**Hunk:** FULLNAMEALERT *gasping emoji*

**Pidge:** Fine.

**Pidge:** this is the patriarchy.

**Pidge:** Anyone else who calls me katelyn tonight is getting a double reed shoved up their ass.

**Pidge:** Goodnight anti-fun people.

**Hunk:** *kissing emoji*

**Pidge:** Emoji rejected.

**Hunk:** *crying emoji*

**Pidge:** *eye roll emoji* *kissing emoji* *poop emoji*

**Hunk:** *heart emoji*

(7:15 am)

**Lance:** wow, rejecting emojis pidge, that’s ice cold

**Lance:** ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT ALRIGHT

**Lance:** oh shit the gchat blew up last night, I need to scroll all the way up

**Lance:** wow.

**Lance:** you are all dead to me.

**Lance:** and it was a massager, I have TENDONITIS because I am an ATHLETE

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #tendonitisoftheasshole**

**Lance:** low blow, pidge

**Lance:** low blow.

 

* * *

 

 

The Holt house is a music lover’s paradise. Lance always loves going over, because not only are the Holts some of the nicest people on the planet, they make him feel good about his music dorkiness – in comparison to the Holts, _nobody_ is a music dork. They have original Beethoven sonatas framed in the dining room, pianos in almost every room, the largest vinyl collection Lance has ever seen (and that’s including several vinyl stores). Mr. Holt is the musical director for the Long Beach Symphony Orchestra and Mrs. Holt organizes their music library, as well as teach music to elementary schoolers. It’s no surprise that Pidge and Matt ended up the way they did; what’s surprising is that they ended up halfway normal at all.

Keith’s eyes are wide when he comes inside, and get even wider when he witnesses the enthusiastic greeting from the Holt parents. Hunk gets a massive hug from Mr. Holt, Allura kisses Mrs. Holt on the cheeks, Pidge grins as their dog Bae Bae jumps around. Allura and Coran live way on the outskirts of town and Shiro lives in a small apartment with his grandfather, so for convenience’s sake Pidge, Lance and Hunk usually take turns hosting practice. The Holts are the default, because they’re all about artistic expression and seem to have missed the normal parent memo that says ‘kick the kids out of the house when they’re being too loud.’

When everyone else has said hi, Keith gets through introductions with minimal angst; just says ‘Hey, nice to meet you’ and then proceeds to awkwardly stand with his guitar. Lance makes his way over to him and grins.

“Wanna see the best part of the house?”

Keith looks up, surprised, and then nods.

Lance leads him down a hallway lined with baby pictures. At the very end of the hallway is a handsome beige bass guitar behind glass, lit up from the ceiling like heaven itself wants this to be illuminated. As they get closer, Lance can see the second Keith gets it; he gasps and almost runs forward.

“ _No_ ,” he says.

“Yeah,” Lance says. “Seriously.”

“This is Paul McCartney’s bass,” Keith says. “His _actual_ bass.”

“I know.”

Keith’s hand hovers over the glass, right above the scrawled black signature on the body. “How did they get this?”

“Some long story, Mr. Holt knew a guy who knew a guy who knew a guy. Somebody found out about it and tried to actually break in and steal it, their alarm went off and the police came and it was wild. Mr. Holt tells the story better, you’ll have to ask him sometime.”

Keith straightens up, flashes Lance a look. “That’s really cool.”

“Lance, you’ve seen this guitar at least twenty times, why is this still the first place I find you?” Pidge stands down at the other end of the hall, hands on her hips and smiling at them.

“You have to pay homage to the gods whenever you enter their temple,” Lance replies, very seriously.

She rolls her eyes. “Come on, you losers. We’re ready.”

The Holts have an actual music studio, dedicated solely to the playing of live instrumental music. It’s a bit of a tight squeeze with all six of them and their instruments and amps, but with some creative positioning of Shiro’s drums they manage to make it work. There are noise cancelling pads on all the walls and tons of music stands in the closet.

“Wow, you guys do not fuck around with music,” Keith murmurs to himself as they set up.

“In one sense we do,” Pidge replies, adjusting her neck strap. “I can’t tell you how many times Matt got laid in this room. He had a thing for clarinet players.”

“Clarinet players are either weird or slutty, or both,” Lance says, and even Shiro nods in agreement. “It’s just the facts.”

“Where is your brother?”

“He goes to Colburn Conservatory, in LA.”

“Oh cool, doing like what you do?”

“Matt’s a different type of prodigy,” Pidge says easily, and Keith gets a weird face. Yeah, Lance didn’t know there were different types of musical prodigies either. “He’s a specialist. He’s majoring in saxophone performance, and he does classical saxophone solos in all sorts of ensembles on campus, which, if you know anything about sax, ‘classical saxophone’ is pretty difficult for modern performers. Anyway, he mostly does alto, but I’ve seen him do soprano to bari.”

“So that’s why you picked tenor? To be different from your older brother while still getting to play his instrument?”

Pidge curls her lip, and Allura huffs a laugh. “He saw right through you, Pidge!”

“No,” she says haughtily, busying herself with her instrument. “Because tenors are sexy. They’re the backbone of the band.”

“That’s trombones, you’re wrong,” Hunk chimes in.

“Alright, enough bickering,” Shiro says. “Let’s actually get some practice in.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Pidge sighs.

“Besides, you’re all wrong. Drums are the backbone of the band.”

An instantaneous chorus of ‘What? You’re crazy!’ rises up from Voltron, and Lance laughs from where he’s lounging on top of an amp.

“Okay, but we do need to figure out what we’re going to play. Are we going with pop-punk? Hit ‘em with a little MCR? We’ve got three songs to perform.”

“One of them is _Born to Run!_ ” Pidge says, and Lance rolls his eyes.

“I still think we’re not taking full advantage of our membership,” Allura says. “Lance speaks fluent Spanish. We could do some reggaetón, something other bands couldn’t fully pull off.”

“While I do sound _incredible_ in Spanish,” Lance says, and he sees Keith aggressively roll his eyes, “I don’t know if that’s the best idea. This is southern California, plenty of kids speak Spanish, and besides it doesn’t really show off you guys’ talents. It’s mostly just me singing really fast.”

“Tons of songs are open to us now that Keith’s here,” Shiro says. “We steered clear of guitar-heavy songs last year, but now we can play a much bigger repertoire. We could go hard rock, heavy metal, 70’s guitar anthems. We could play _Fat Bottomed Girls_ if we wanted.”

“Aw, doing Queen, that’d be taking it back!” Hunk says, turning to Lance with a grin on his face. “That’s how Voltron started.”

“Best night ever! Wait, hold on, I think I’ve still got the video – “ Lance digs around in his back pocket for his phone and Shiro sighs.

“Lance, is this a productive use of everybody’s time?”

“Shut up, yes it is, Keith needs to know the history of the band that he decided to join!”

“More like forced me to join.”

“Ugh, shut up, you love it. Here, this is hysterical, watch this.” He holds the phone out in front of Keith, and Hunk, Pidge and Allura lean in even though they’ve all seen this video at least three times.

There’s nothing to watch at first but shakiness, and then Lance bustles over and adjusts it. “Celia, hold it just like that, okay?” Video-Lance says.

“This is boring,” his little sister whines from behind the camera, and current Lance has to stifle a grin. “Hunk said he would make me cookies.”

“We’ll make cookies, okay?” Lance still isn’t in the video, but Hunk is, adjusting his bass. They’re in the McClain’s garage, full of bicycles and toys and boxes that his mother swears are important but that they’ve never unpacked.

“I don’t want you to make cookies, you’re terrible, I want _Hunk_ to make cookies!” The camera shakes as she stomps her feet.

“Celia, I’ll make you all the cookies you want,” Hunk says soothingly. Lance finally comes into view, adjusting his hair. It’s only been a year since the video was taken, but Lance still finds himself looking at it through Keith’s eyes. Did he look skinnier back then? He’s pale; he spent a lot of time inside during the mess that was freshman year, he lost a lot of his natural tan. Video-Lance clears his throat and looks at the camera.

“Hold it right there, okay? Then we can get cookies.”

“Fine, whatever.”

Video-Lance turns to Hunk and nods, and Hunk smiles and starts to pluck out a familiar bassline. It’s _Under Pressure_ , and he’s calm and confident, the Hunk that Lance is so proud of but that not many people get to see. Lance finds himself holding his breath, watching himself on this old video freaking out, praying desperately for himself to come through and sing even though he knows full well that he does. It’s very Harry Potter at the lake in 'Prisoner of Azkaban'.

Finally, with Hunk making encouraging eye contact, Video-Lance takes a deep breath and sings.

“ _Pressure_ – pushing down on me, pushing down on you, no man asks for. Under pressure, that brings a building down, splits a family in two, puts people on streets…”

His confidence grows with his voice, and stripped away of any guitars or drums it’s just them in the garage, Lance’s voice filling the room and ricocheting off the walls.

“Watching some good friends screaming, ‘Let me out!’ Pray tomorrow gets me higher – pressure on people, people on streets!”

He does both parts, the Bowie and Freddie Mercury, doing a little shimmy around Hunk, who hams it up, dancing in a circle while he plays. His voice is shaky on the epic high note towards the end, but he still hits it and holds. Watching the video, Keith flicks his eyes over to Lance, eyebrows raised high.

Hunk starts singing with him, just on the backup, and eventually Celia puts the phone down and the last thing they hear is Lance scolding her as she runs away.

“There you have it,” Lance says dramatically, putting the phone back in his pocket. “The origin story of the legendary Voltron.”

“We got Pidge next,” Hunk says, walking back over to his bass. “And then she talked to Matt, who talked to Shiro, who talked to Allura. Our first practice was right there in the McClain’s basement. We played _What’s My Age Again?_ ”

“And it sounded terrible because we had Matt on guitar and he sucks,” Pidge says, eyes lighting up behind her glasses, “but _Keith_ is here now, so we have to try it again!”

Keith actually smiles, thumbing over his strings. “I’m down, but I’ve never played it before.”

“We can work on that,” Shiro says, and work on it they do. The Fall Out Boy was a fluke; most Voltron practices go like this, with everyone looking up their parts and workshopping it out. Pidge’s true genius shows in moments like this; she’s got perfect pitch and can pinpoint exactly why their playing doesn’t sound like the recording, from a bad setting on the amp to a slightly mistuned string to a whole transposing because Hunk’s bass is tuned deeper than the one used. Allura’s great at this too; she was the one who caught that Keith wasn’t using his pedals right. Lance generally doesn’t have too much to do at this stage; he mostly looks up lyrics, listens to the song to make sure he remembers how it sounds. Normally Pidge doesn’t call for him until the instruments are all sorted out.

They’re just getting into it – Keith’s got that iconic guitar part down, his face totally alight while he plays, and Hunk’s in heaven cause he gets to use an actual pick – when Mrs. Holt comes down with snacks. After that the whole thing gets derailed pretty quick. Shiro suggests that they look up songs with good saxophone and piano parts, to fully utilize Pidge and Allura, so obviously Lance and Hunk burst into _Africa_ by Toto while throwing pizza rolls in each other’s mouths. Mr. Holt comes in, because for some reason he’s obsessed with that song, and an hour later they’ve worked out the entire conga part for _Africa_ and Shiro is shaking his head in fond exasperation.

“Guys. We do have to actually practice at some point. Just saying.”

“The audition tapes aren’t even due until November, we are _so_ ahead of the game.” Lance is still deep in the history of _Africa_ and can’t be bothered to look up from his phone. “Did you guys know that _Africa_ is _literally_ about white people singing about Africa? Like, the entire song is so goddamn meta.”

Allura’s completely laying on the floor, head pillowed on Hunk’s legs, swinging one foot idly in the air. “You know what we ought to do?” She says, with that little British twang that she’s never quite managed to get rid of. “We should go to the beach.”

“Yes!” Pidge says. “Yes, we should, absolutely.”

“Ooh, I could go for the beach,” Hunk says, and Lance takes one look at Shiro’s smiling face to tell that they’re done with practice for the night.

“It’s nighttime,” Keith says. “Going to the beach at night?”

“It’s the best time to go, way less crowded!” Allura says.

“Plus nighttime is the only time we can go, thanks to Pidge,” Lance says.

“I sunburn easily,” Pidge says indignantly. “And I have allergies. I’m an inside kid for a reason.”

“We live in fucking California and you never want to go to the beach! Who the fuck is allergic to the _beach_?”

“I don’t have a swimsuit,” Keith says, as they all stand up and start packing up.

“Matt’s got a whole bunch left over, you can grab one,” Shiro says. “Or just go in your shorts. It doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll get supplies!” Pidge and Hunk run downstairs, leaving everybody else to pack up their instruments. Keith still looks apprehensive, looking out the window at the night outside, so Lance jabs a quick elbow in his ribs.

“What’s up, cowboy? Got someplace better to be?”

“No,” Keith says. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t go to the beach often?”

Keith shrugs, which Lance takes as a yes.

“Don’t worry, we do California right.”

Keith looks up through his bangs, and Lance remembers what he swore to himself. _Meet him where he’s at._

“You don’t have to come, if you don’t want,” he forces himself to say. Cause he really wants Keith to come. He _really_ wants Keith to come. There’s nothing like the beach that makes Lance feel free, and he wants Keith to know that about him. He wants Keith to see the places that make him and his friends the happiest, cause he wants Keith to know them and be his happiest with them too.

He can physically see this kid steel himself. “No, it’s cool,” Keith says.

“You sure? Cause you can head home, we won’t be offended. I’ll cry myself to sleep at night, but that’s a normal Friday night so it’s cool.” Lance can see Shiro watching them, eyebrows raised in interest, and pointedly ignores the flush on his neck to focus on Keith.

Keith cracks a smile, and Lance knows he’s in. “Of course we can’t have you crying anymore than usual. It’ll get your blindfold wet.”

“Asshole,” Lance says, and everyone ignores how fond it sounds.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith usually makes no effort to learn the cities he moves to. It doesn’t take Freud to figure out that this is a coping mechanism; he figured that out for himself whenever they first moved to Colorado after Texas, and he would physically shut his eyes on class field trips to local places around Fort Carson. No point in knowing anything about new places, when Mom wouldn’t fight for them to stay anywhere. There are army brats who are good at moving; Keith Kogane, antisocial boy wonder, is not one of them.

He’s starting to think he’ll make an exception for Long Beach.

Keith knew they lived close to the beach, but with each street that they barrel down in Pidge’s mom’s minivan, he can actually see it get closer, the great inkiness of it rising beyond the lit-up buildings. Around him, Lance and Shiro and Allura argue about the best part of the beach, the best zone to park, but Keith just stares out the window like a little kid. He’s seen the ocean before – they were posted in Hawaii for a year, for God’s sake – but he’s never lived this close, never been in such close proximity. It’s _right there_.

They pull into a mostly deserted parking lot and start unloading. They’ve clearly got this down to a science; Hunk carries a round metal firepit, Shiro and Lance grab armfuls of firewood, Pidge and Allura unpack portable speakers. Everyone kicks their shoes off as soon as they hit the boardwalk, and Keith has to stop for a moment, breath caught in his throat at the sight of the beach at night – wheeling stars above, sucking ocean below, moon-crested foam in tiny white waves, great and still and powerful like a sleeping dragon, washing rhythmically up the sand in soft brushstrokes. It’s so beautiful, it almost hurts to look at.

The majority of the group drops their stuff off and immediately runs for the water – Lance and Hunk strip their shirts off and go in their shorts, Allura runs in wearing denim shorts and her tank top, Pidge wears just a sports bra and a pair of shorts. They pelt towards the water like little kids, shriek the second that the water washes over them, and then keep running in. Almost nobody else is at the beach this late at night; their ecstatic screams fill the beach.

Shiro, however, very calmly starts setting up the fire. Keith doesn’t feel quite ready yet, feeling very insecure in his t-shirt and a borrowed pair of Matt’s shorts, so he grabs the firewood and various accoutrements and starts building a teepee of kindling and newspaper. Shiro hums in acknowledgment, and then they work in easy silence.

The sand is so, so cold against his toes, even in August, and when Keith drops to his knees it’s still just as cold. The wind whips through the beach, bringing salt to his nose, and he breathes deep. He can hear Lance behind him shouting something incomprehensible, his words cut off by water in his mouth and the sound of the waves.

Keith sets a match to his little setup and it catches easily. Shiro hands him medium-size sticks, and Keith positions them just so, sucking on his finger when it catches too close to the flame. In no time at all they’ve got a gently burning fire, and Keith feels confident enough to add their first big log.

“You’re good at this,” Shiro observes.

“Boy Scouts,” Keith replies. “It’s, like, legally required for awkward military kids. I really only liked the camping.”

“You seem like you would,” Shiro says. “My granddad and I go camping in Joshua Tree every summer, you’ll have to come with us. Nobody else ever wants to,” he finishes with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” Keith says, taken aback. “Yeah, I’d love to.”

“Great.” Shiro flashes him a smile before turning to the portable speakers. He flicks the switch, positions them towards the ocean, starts flicking through his phone.

“Whose Spotify is the beach playlist on?” He yells to the swimmers.

“Hunk’s!” Lance hollers back, before being bodily tackled by said playlist owner.

“Knew that was why I couldn’t find it,” Shiro said. He apparently finds the correct playlist, because the speakers come to life, playing something light and tinkling and easy. He sticks his phone in the sand and pulls his feet under him, sitting criss-cross applesauce like a preschooler. It’s kinda cute; Keith didn’t think he’d ever say that about a guy as stoic and buff as Shiro.

“Beach playlist,” he says, a bit needlessly. “Everyone added their favorite beach songs. Start thinking of your favorites, because we do try to come down here as much as we can.”

Keith leans back, making himself comfortable, no towel under him so he can feel the sand stick to his bare elbows. He stretches his legs out in front of him, wiggles his toes. He’s already grown used to the constant sound of the ocean, the way it starts to feel like a heartbeat after only a few minutes – in and out, in and out, in and out.

“So how did they convince you to join the band?” Keith asks.

Shiro cracks a smile, his face thrown into warm orange from the firelight. “Well, I’ve known the Holts since I was a kid. We’re old family friends. Once Lance and Hunk got Pidge on board, then she nabbed her brother Matt, and then he convinced me to come to a practice, just to keep him company and keep everyone on time. I should’ve known from the start, though, Pidge was never after Matt. They didn’t need two saxes, but they did need a drummer.”

“Evil little genius,” Keith says, and Shiro laughs.

“You’re not wrong. Except I don’t know if I was even the final prize, since I was the one who convinced Allura to come to practice. I’d seen her piano recitals before and knew we needed her. It’s entirely possible the whole chain was masterminded by Pidge.”

“You saw Allura’s piano recitals?”

“Uh, yeah.” Shiro coughs, and Keith bites down on a smile. “You know. She’s really good. I went and saw her. Just for fun. To, like, support her.”

“Yeah,” Keith says. “The ultimate in platonic friendships. Going to someone’s piano recital.”

“I get this enough from Lance and them, I don’t need it from you,” Shiro warns.

Keith puts his hands up in surrender, and Shiro turns back to watch the waves with a smile. At the moment, Pidge has climbed up on Hunk’s shoulders and Allura is on Lance’s, engaging in a dramatic game of chicken. Lance and Allura are quite a bit taller, but Pidge has clever little fingers, and he can see her reach out and tickle Allura, making her scream in delight.

“You gonna join?” Shiro says, with no judgment.

“Eventually, yeah.”

Shiro nods easily. “I know they’re a lot sometimes.”

“No,” Keith says. “I mean, yeah, they are a lot, but it’s nice. It’s…good.”

“I agree. It’s nice to not have things so quiet sometimes.”

“Are things quiet at home for you too?”

“Well, it’s just me and my granddad, so yeah, pretty quiet.”

Keith really wants to look over and stare at Shiro, but he makes himself look right at the waves. “Why is it just you and your granddad?”

“My parents have been dead for most of my life.” A cresting wave washes ashore, almost up to Keith’s toes. “Granddad’s raised me, essentially. It can get a bit…sleepy, at home, but he’s always been completely supportive. He always comes to Rockfest and has an amazing time.”

“Do everybody’s parents come?”

“Yeah, totally.” Shiro pauses for a moment. “But only if you want them too.”

The song’s switched over, and someone sings with the waves now – _California, here we come, right back where we started from._ “No, I mean. It’s just my dad, but. I think he’d want to come.”

“If he sees how good of a player you are, he won’t miss it for the world.”

Keith can’t say anything, just ducks his head and stares furiously at the sand as his whole face heats up. What is _with_ these people and easy compliments? He’s seen them roast each other in the group chat, he’s not sure what about him seems so pathetic that he needs complimented every five minutes. It’s embarrassing, and horrible, and he’s not sure if he ever wants it to stop.

“I’m going to swim,” he says, to get away from the feelings.

Shiro just waves a hand, smiling knowingly like the little shit he is. “Have fun!”

Keith strips his shirt off. “I will… _Dad_.”

Shiro glares at him all the way to the beach.

True to form, the whole crowd cheers when Keith walks up. Keith realizes halfway up that this means Lance is going to see his bare chest, and makes the executive decision to try not to be a completely insecure nutcase tonight so that he can attempt to enjoy this without worrying about his pasty-white skin or how skinny his shoulders are or how he does not have a six-pack by any definition of the word –

“Jesus H. _Christ_ , that’s fucking cold!”

“Welcome to the Pacific!” Pidge cackles as Keith quickly runs back on the beach.

“Who actually says ‘Jesus H. Christ’?” Allura says, laughter in her voice.

“I’m from Texas, give me a break,” Keith says, attempting to re-enter the water. Another cold wash sends his ankles into pins and needles, and he scuttles back on the beach.

“Gotta just dive in!” Lance says. “Dick’s not gonna fall off, I promise!”

“It’s easier if you just jump!” Hunk yells.

It’s so dark, but Keith can see the important things through the blackness of the water – the white of Allura’s hair, Pidge’s glasses flashing, Hunk’s yellow headband, Lance’s smile above the waves.

He takes a deep breath and runs straight into it.

_Fuck_ , it’s fucking _cold_ , he thought this was summer time, goose flesh rises over his entire body and for a moment the midnight sea appears to overtake him in a rush of noise. His head breaks the surface, sputtering and half-shouting, and Lance is immediately hugging him, a long line of wet, cold, slippery boy.

“There’s our boy! Run _straight_ into it, way to _be_ , kid!”

They’re all treading water, just far enough that he can only brush the sand with his toes and Pidge is completely hanging onto Hunk. Allura beams at him and they all sway, bodies pushed back and forth with the tide.

“ _God_ , it’s fucking cold,” Keith finally manages to get out, his teeth literally chattering.

“Gets better when you move, tag you’re it!” And Lance is off, swimming like a dolphin deeper into the water, and Keith grits his teeth and dives back in with him.

The moon rises higher and higher, lighting up faces and hands and arms, making the ocean feel just that bit warmer. Lance is right, it is better when they’re moving, so they swim and play tag and Marco Polo and even get back into chicken (Lance and Allura versus Keith and Hunk; Allura is an absolute _beast_ and Keith will never underestimate her upper body strength for as long as he lives). Shiro does, in fact, eventually come out to join them, though Keith suspects it’s only to break up the previous game where Pidge climbed up on Hunk’s shoulders like a spider monkey and jumped off. Keith’s eyes are stinging from the salt and he’s thirsty and pruny and exhausted when they finally crawl out of the ocean to lie back on the beach, where they restoke the fire and listen to the playlist, faces to the sky.

“The water in Cuba is so much warmer,” Lance says. His voice is more of a mumble than whip-sharp like it normally is, words spilling out slow and lazy. “It’s literally sun-kissed. You can jump right in Varadero Beach and it feels like a bathtub.”

“Do you get to go back this year?” Hunk asks. Keith stares up at the stars, hears the music trickle into his ears - _I want to live where soul meets body…_

“No,” Lance says, softly. “Not the safest place to go right now, and Charo’s still so young. At this rate the next time I’ll get to go back is when a grandparent dies.”

“I’m sorry, Lance,” Allura says gently. “I know how important your family is to you.”

“Aw, Mom, don’t worry about it.” He sits up, a long lean silhouette against the moonlight and black sand, just the barest flickers of firelight catching his edges. “I’m all good. Cuba will always be there. I’m exactly where I want to be now.”

He runs a hand through his hair, slim fingers running through tiny salt-caked curls, and Keith thinks,

_He’s beautiful._

And…what the _fuck?_

Pidge curls her tiny body over, fingers running through the sand in front of her as everyone’s phone but Keith’s goes off at the same time. Keith doesn’t mind; as they all dig out phones and brush sand off to flick open their screens, it gives him a solid fifteen seconds of _what the fuck what the fuck what the fucking fuck._

“Aw yes,” Lance says, words suddenly wide awake. “Oh, yes, I am so in.”

“You’ve got swim practice tomorrow,” Hunk reminds him.

“Like I’ve never gone to swim practice hungover.”

“Hira’s having an impromptu party tonight,” Shiro informs Keith, still lying on his back. “Pretty close to here, actually, I think she lives just a few streets over.”

“You guys, Hira’s parties are excellent, we have to go!”

“I’m in,” Pidge says.

“I’m out – Lance, don’t look at me like that!” Allura says. “I’m not up for a party tonight. I might just find a coffee shop and study for AP Government. But you guys should go, tell Hira I say hi!”

“I’ll join you, that sounds perfect,” Shiro says, and Keith can almost see the exact second that Lance accepts this and changes tactics.

“Hunk, my buddy, come on, you’re the life of the party, it won’t be the same without you!”

“Ugh, Lance, I wanted a chill night tonight…”

“Who wants a chill night? You can have a chill night any night! This is your youth, this is your time to be wild! Wild, Hunk!”

Hunk’s going to give in, Keith can tell. Lance turns to him and smiles like a shark that’s caught blood.

“If it’s a Hira party, there’s a good chance that Shay will be there…”

Even in the low light, the blush on Hunk’s cheeks is plainly visible.

Lance punches the air and turns to Keith. “Keith, buddy, let’s go, come on. Party time.”

“I wasn’t invited,” Keith points out. The words taste like vinegar.

“Nope, I’m already on that.” Lance turns over his phone so Keith can see the screen.

**Lance:** Can keith come??

**Hira:** Of course, he’s cool :)

It’s Keith’s turn to blush, which Lance watches gleefully.

“So you’ll come?” He asks.

The truth is, there’s nothing less appealing in the world than a party right now. He’s tired, he’s been social for about four straight hours, there’s sand in his asscrack and he’s sure his hair looks like shit. He wants to go home, play guitar in his room and pass out.

But…he’s never been invited to a party before.

“Okay,” Keith says.

Lance whoops, and it echoes throughout the beach.

 

* * *

 

 

Hira does live close, not ten minutes from the beach, but they have to drive back to the Holts’ to drop everyone off and change cars (Mrs. Holt looked the other way for Pidge driving the minivan down to the beach, but she made very clear that as she only has a learner’s permit, Hunk has to drive them to the party). By the time that the four of them arrive at the party, Keith’s managed to get himself panicked over everything from what he’s wearing to what his acne looks like to the fact that he still has sand in his asscrack. It doesn’t help that his dad was ecstatic when he texted that he would be out late because he was going to a party: he sent no less than three thumbs up emojis, told him to have a great time, and only managed to tack on ‘Don’t ride home if you’re drunk, I’ll come get you’ as a clear afterthought. His dad clearly believes that getting drunk at parties is something normal teenagers do, and the fact that Keith is incapable of doing this is definitive proof that he is not a normal teenager.

The music is inaudible from the street but pulsing once they get inside. It’s a perfectly ordinary, middle-class ranch house, not that different from Keith’s, and inside is a hodgepodge mix of high schoolers lounging, gossiping, and dancing in a makeshift dance floor by the dining room table. Lance gives him a calming smile when they walk in, and it helps to soothe Keith’s nerves. Hira spots them right after they enter and walks over with a smile.

“Hey, what’s up, welcome.”

“Thanks for having us!” Lance says, scooping her up in a reluctant hug. “What prompted this impromptu shindig?”

“Parents had a last-minute thing in LA,” she says with a shrug. “I didn’t ask. Good enough reason to have a start-of-school party.” She looks over them and grins. “Beach night?”

Lance, Hunk and Pidge didn’t change out of their beach clothes – Pidge’s sports bra is still wet, making the front of her tank top dark with water. “Oh, like there’s a dress code now?” Lance teases, nodding at Hira’s bare feet.

“My house, my rules, bitches,” she fires back immediately, and then turns to Keith. “Glad you could make it.” Her smile is genuine.

“Uh, yeah. Thanks for having me.”

She jerks her head to the kitchen. “Booze is in there. If you’re gonna smoke do it outside. Don’t go in my parents’ room or break anything. Otherwise, have fun.”

And then she walks back through the living room.

Hunk chuckles. “Classic Hira.”

Lance laughs and walks into the kitchen. Keith follows, eyes darting around. _One Tree Hill_ has led him to believe that high school parties are places that people get wasted and fight each other. But it’s a pretty chill hangout right now, and though everybody does seem to be drinking no one’s stumbling and vomiting. Band kids make up at least half of the party; Keith says hi to a whole bunch of people, mostly upperclassmen. Shay is there, looking adorable in a sundress and hanging out by the fridge. Lance slides right up, says hi with a huge hug, and stays just long enough to pull Hunk closer and casually mention Hunk’s latest robotics project. As soon as Shay asks more about it, he slides back out and pulls Keith and Pidge away.

“And we’re in,” he says.

Pidge snickers, and Lance rolls his eyes. “And Shiro says you’re the most mature of all of us.”

“What Dad doesn’t know won’t hurt him.” She reaches easily for a bottle of what Keith thinks is rum.

“Want a drink?” Lance says over his shoulder. “No pressure, there’s soda and stuff too.”

Keith’s never drank either, something which would probably surprise all the kids at his old school who assumed that he was some sort of hardcore teenage badass. “No, I could go for a drink.”

Lance grins, mixing up two drinks in those red plastic cups that Keith’s seen so much of. “That’s my boy, Keithy Keith!”

“Do not ever call me that again,” he grunts, accepting the drink. He’s done a pretty admirable job of ignoring that weird intrusive thought from the beach, but Lance’s fingers brush his and his stomach twists in his torso. Lance just grins, oblivious to the crisis he’s caused.

They toast and Keith takes his first sip of alcohol. “It just tastes like Coke,” he says, after swallowing.

“It just tastes like Coke now,” Lance says sagely. Pidge rolls her eyes. “Wait until later.”

“Don’t get the baby drunk,” Pidge says with an evil little grin, reaching up to pinch Keith’s cheek. “Kids have a very low alcohol tolerance.”

“Says the person who is approximately the size and weight of an eight-year-old boy,” Keith deadpans.

“Don’t forget the fashion sense of an eight-year-old boy!” Lance chimes in.

Pidge just rolls her eyes. “Keith wears fingerless gloves and Lance is currently wearing swim trunks with Left Shark on them. The _height_ of fashion.”

Keith laughs easily and takes another sip. Lance sees someone he knows across the room and darts away. Pidge leans back against the wall and Keith mirrors her.

“This is a lot of rap music,” he observes. He hasn’t recognized a single song.

“This is actually pretty chill for Hira,” Pidge says. “She’s normally into _really_ obscure Biggie. Some of these songs were at least made in the past five years.”

“Do you know modern music too? Do you just know everything about music?”

She grins. “No, but don’t tell anyone that. Lance thinks I’m some sort of walking music encyclopedia.”

The man in question just ran back into the kitchen to refill his cup. Pidge raises her eyebrows at him, but he just sticks his tongue out and runs back into the living room.

“He’s…having fun,” Keith says.

“He can be a menace at parties. He cares about this stuff more than the rest of us do.”

“What stuff?”

She waves her hand. “Parties. Popularity. The high school experience. Knowing everybody and doing everything.”

Keith watches him. He’s deep in conversation with five other people, and even though sometimes he looks like the odd one out, they all seem pretty happy to have him there. They’re not in band, so Keith has no idea who they are. “But you guys all play along.”

“Yeah, of course. I like parties. I just don’t care about them in the grand scheme of life. And if it makes him happy, so what? Happy Lance is always preferable to Sad Lance. Sad Lance is terrible. You feel like you’ve kicked a puppy.”

Keith smiles. “Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Keither! Pidgeon!” Lance pokes his head in the kitchen. “We’re playing Kings! Hunk, Shay, you guys too! Let’s go!”

Kings, it turns out, is a pretty chill drinking game – Keith figures out the rules pretty quickly. It’s nice to have a set reason to keep sipping at his drink without needing to get up off the couch or do anything too crazy. Lance is the life of the party in their little group, but in the bigger group he’s overshadowed by older seniors, kids like Hira and Rolo and Nyma who make everyone shut up when they talk, while Lance sometimes still gets shouted over. Keith watches him shake it off again and again, attempting to tell a story only to have people cut in halfway or lose interest, trying to catch Nyma’s attention while she’s totally wrapped up in Rolo. Every time, Lance just changes tactics, switches to making fun of Pidge or talking to Shay or making sure that Keith is doing okay, taking a big drink every few minutes.

The music gets poppier, the night gets later, and Lance gets drunker. Kings breaks up into smaller drinking games, kids file out and are replaced by new kids. Keith goes to the bathroom to clear his head and recenter himself and when he comes back out, Lance is waiting for him.

“ _Keith_ ,” he says, eyes glassy and cheeks flushed. Keith almost immediately reaches out a hand to grab his arm. “Are you _okay_?”

“I was in the bathroom?”

“Yeah, are you okay?”

“Yeah, Lance, I was peeing.”

“Okay, okay, as long as you weren’t sick or sad or anything,” he says, “because you have to tell me if that happens, okay? You have to pinky promise, you’re not gonna be sick or anything without us, right? Keith?”

He’s smiling before he even realizes he is, a soft, fond thing. “I promise, Lance.”

They’re close, Lance swaying where he stands, face-to-face in a hallway lined with ceramic cat figurines on tall shelves. Lance takes another drink, blue eyes locked on Keith the entire time.

“Should you be drinking any more of that?” Keith’s not quite sober either, but he can tell Lance is pretty blasted.

“Pssh, I’m fine. It’s just booze! It’s booze, we’re teenagers, we drink booze! Boozey-boozey-booze. Hold on, let’s find Pidgeon and Hunkasaur!”

He grabs Keith’s hand and hauls them back into the party, where Pidge and Hunk are sitting on a couch talking to a few different band people. Lance thumps himself down onto the couch and Pidge turns to him with a smirk.

“Well, aren’t we having fun?”

Lance thrust his drink into the air, some of the liquor sloshing over the side. “The most fun. The mostest fun. The moistest fun? Is moistest a word? I’m quite moist. Alcohol is moist, you know.”

“Oh God,” Hunk moaned. “Oh God, he’s drunk. He always gets drunk. He always gets drunk and he always wants to do stupid shit when he’s drunk.”

“What’s wrong with doing stupid shit? What stupid shit are you talking about?” Keith’s perched himself on the arm of the couch, watching the way roses have bloomed in Lance’s cheeks.

“Over the summer, when your cousin bought us rum, and then we played Mario Kart until 5 am when we both had family stuff to do the next day! I looked like a zombie!”

“You looked like a handsome, attractive, powerful man, which is how you always look.” Lance beams at Hunk, reaching over to clumsily pat him on the head when he suddenly freezes. The music’s switched over to something different, with piano and clicks, and Lance’s face lights up dangerously.

"YAS QUEEN!" Lance shrieks. His drink sloshes as he scrambles onto the coffee table. "Now I'm out here looking like a revenge, feeling like a ten, the best I ever been - "

Keith's heard this song, somewhere, on some radio station, and never paid attention to it. But he's listening now, as Lance starts to gyrate his hips, face flushed as he clearly knows every word to this song.

“Now you’re out there looking like regret, ain’t too proud to beg, second chance you’ll never get – “

"What is this?" Keith asks Hunk.

"Demi Lovato, 'Sorry Not Sorry,'" he answers. "It's Lance's jam. We listened to it every fucking day of the summer."

"Literally," Pidge says. "Every day. Multiple times a day."

“Oh come on bitches, I know you love this song too! Come on, get it with me – baby I’m sorry I’m not sorry! Baby, I’m sorry – “

“I’m not sorry!” Hunk and Pidge obligingly sing along.

Lance grins at them, eyes closing into a half-trance, grinding in midair. Everyone in the party is watching him and it makes him glow in this shitty lighting. He holds out his cup like a microphone to the crowd and sings,

“Baby I’m sorry – “

“I’m not sorry!” A few people sing back, laughing.

“Baby I’m sorry – “

“I’m not sorry!” More people now, everyone turned to Lance.

It’s a powerful song with a powerful vocal part, but Lance could sing at the Superbowl right now. His voice is at its absolute stretchiest, and he’s hitting the female notes with barely a blink. The bridge comes, something about ‘talk that talk baby, better walk that walk baby’, the whole crowd chanting it back to him. Just when it crescendos, Lance holds his cup like a microphone and hits an absolutely incredible note, voice high and clear and proud. Keith couldn't look away if there was a gun to his head.

Everyone screams along to the final chorus, and when it’s done and the whole party has erupted in the applause Lance has sought all night, he takes a wobbly bow and hops off the coffee table. Keith blinks like he came out of a trance.

"Like you don't all worship at the altar of Queen Demi. I saw you dancing, Pidgeon, don't try and fool me." Lance’s eyes are glittering and his throat is sweaty as he takes long pulls of his drink.

"Why don't you play that?" Keith asks. It's the only thing he can think. "With Voltron. You crushed that."

Lance quirks an eyebrow and grins. "I know I did, dearest. But it's not really a song for a full band. Too much electronic."

"Wait, no hold on a second," Hunk says. "Maybe Keith's onto something. Maybe it's not right for a bass guitar, but that bassline would sound sick on a tuba."

"Tuba?"

"Yeah, get the full sousaphone going."

"You would need brass," Pidge says. A grin plays at the corners of her mouth. "Get trumpets in there to play the licks. You can do that, right Keith?"

"Obviously," Keith says, without thinking. 

"I'll play alto, hit the melody. Lance, we've said we wanted to do some more Reel Big Fish stuff for a while."

"So we do a big band crossover on a Demi Lovato song?"

"Keith's right, your vocals are too good not to use on this song," Hunk says. For all his machismo, Lance blushes at the praise.

"Hell yeah, bitches," he finally says.

_We could do it,_ Keith thinks. _He could do it. He could do anything, as long as somebody’s watching._

Keith has the sneaking suspicion that he’s always going to be watching. It doesn’t feel like something he can fight anymore.

The next song that comes on is another Lance favorite – as far as Keith can tell the only words are ‘work work work work’ repeated ad nauseam – but it prompts him to start twerking, and a bunch of girls scream and join in. After that Keith goes outside for a bit to try and calm down the blush in his face and quell the thoughts that are finally starting to consolidate into something real, something that has a name and an identity that he’s never thought would intersect with his life. He doesn’t think the word, still doesn’t want to take that final metaphorical leap into even entertaining the possibility, so he breathes deeply in the sea-scented air until his heart’s at a normal pace and he doesn’t feel like running away where no one can identify him. Then he goes back inside, because he needs a distraction, and gets caught up in small talk with Hunk and a bunch of band people.

Keith’s pretty proud of himself for even handling small talk (never mind that he says one word for every hundred of theirs), and it takes some time before he realizes he hasn’t actually seen Lance in a while. A small burst of fear grips his chest, and he’s up and walking before he can even process. He sets his drink down on the table and starts wandering the house. Lance isn't in the kitchen, or on the porch, or in the garage playing beer pong. He finds him when he turns down the darkened hallway with the ceramic cats and finds Lance leaning against the wall outside the bathroom.

“Hey,” he says, and it’s a disturbingly long time before Lance raises his head and smiles.

“Keith.” His words are completely slurred, mouth loose, the word coming out like ‘eeef’.

“Hey,” he repeats uselessly, walking forward with his hands up. “You okay?”

“ _So_ good,” he slurs.

“You’re standing outside the bathroom.”

“Yeah…din’ wanna sit.”

He hiccups wetly, and Keith starts to panic. “Okay, well, maybe you want to sit now? Maybe together?”

He doesn’t give him the chance to say no, just flicks on the light in the bathroom and nudges Lance inside. It’s got green striped wallpaper and a fuzzy green bathmat and toilet seat. Lance flops onto the ground, his head almost hitting the bathtub.

“Holy shit, holy shit – Lance are you drugged? Lance, did you take something?”

“Course not,” he says, shockingly firm. “Just drunk, Keith. We coo.”

“Are you gonna puke?” He looks like he’s been held underwater for ten minutes, sweaty and flushed and swollen. He _absolutely_ looks like he’s going to puke.

He makes a very Lance-like snort and hauls himself up with one hand on the toilet. “ _No_! Don’t be stu – “

Then he flips the toilet seat up with impressive speed and proceeds to vomit.

“Oh Jesus,” Keith says. “Oh Jesus H. Christ. Okay. Uh.”

He pulls out his phone, at a complete loss, and texts Hunk and Pidge.

**Keith:** Mayday Lance is puking in the guest bathroom

**Keith:** Please help

Lance has been puking steadily for the past couple minutes, whole body convulsing with it. Keith reaches over and tentatively pats him on his overheated back, and he gives a low moan in response.

Footsteps hurry down the hall, and Hunk appears in the doorway like a giant guardian angel. “Oh jeez,” he says, and crouches down in the small space. He puts one hand on Lance’s forehead. “Lance, what did you drink?”

“He was mixing his own drinks,” Keith says.

Lance coughs and spits, says croakily, “Like, tequila? And vodka? And rum?”

“Oh _jeez_ ,” Hunk says empathically. “Keith, go get some water.”

Keith nods and runs to the kitchen for a glass of water. When he comes back, Hunk’s got a wet washcloth and is wiping it over Lance’s face. Lance’s eyes are scrunched up like a disgruntled kitten and Keith fights down a wave of fondness.

“You should know not to drink so much, Lance, we’ve been over this,” Hunk says. He’s completely steady and completely unfazed by the vomit; he would make a fantastic nurse, Keith thinks. “You’re gonna feel terrible tomorrow.”

“I feel _great_ ,” Lance says, and tries to get up. Hunk plants his hands on his shoulders and gently forces him back down.

“Oh no you don’t, you are staying right there until the only thing in your stomach is air. He goes through phases,” Hunk explains to Keith. “He’ll try to get up and run around and then he’ll be puking again in thirty seconds. You gotta make him stay put, it’s kinda brutal but it’s the best idea.”

Lance curls into a ball, hands clinging piteously to the toilet, and then leans over and commences puking. Hunk gestures, proving his point, and settles down, back against the cabinet under the sink. Keith leans back against the bathtub, feeling the cold porcelain through his shirt, and settles in for what appears to be a long haul.

“Does he do this often?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Hunk says. His voice is so soothing – it’s warm and kind, and Keith can feel the stress from the puking begin to ebb away in the face of Hunk’s steady calm. “Last year, he was a bit wild. He had a really bad freshman year, he kinda came out swinging and just wanted to party all the time. This summer was calmer.”

“What happened freshman year?”

“No, nuh-uh, there is no way in hell he wants me to tell you about freshman year.” Hunk shakes his head vehemently. “Nope, no, sorry buddy. He’ll tell you himself.”

Keith peeks over at Lance, who’s breathing heavily, eyes closed and cheek pressed to the toilet seat. If he is paying attention to the conversation, he shows no signs of joining it.

“Dumbass thing to do,” Keith says. “Get drunk and puke. Make your friends take care of you.”

Hunk shrugs. “It’s hardly a crime.”

Keith raises his eyebrows.

“Okay, yeah, so this, technically, is a crime. But it’s not hurting anyone else. He’s just having fun, he’s being himself and living life. He never does it without someone here, he never makes us worry about him anymore. He just needs to feel like he’s a part of something.”

“I don’t get it,” Keith says, into the quiet of this little bathroom. “Doing stuff like this, just to feel like you’re a part of something. It’s stupid.”

Hunk nods. “Yeah, kinda. But are you saying that you wouldn’t? We all do a lot of dumb stuff just to feel included, right?”

Keith thinks, fleetingly, of wearing bibbers and Shakos, marching in a giant lion formation, spending every Friday night at a football stadium, and ducks behind his hair.

“I guess,” he mumbles.

Hunk hums easily, and they lapse into silence. Lance convulses and begins another wave of vomiting, which prompts Hunk to knee-walk over and make sure that he’s puking into the toilet. Then he wipes down his face, prompts him to take another sip of water, and lets him slump back over the toilet.

“How’d it go with Shay?” Keith asks, when Hunk sits back down. It’s as much out of genuine curiosity as it is to keep the conversation topic away from him.

On cue, Hunk blushes, and Keith has to smile. “She’s very nice,” he says, like a grandma describing her only grandson.

“I know,” Keith says with a smile. “Everyone who’s ever met her knows that.”

“We always have such great conversations, like we can talk about anything and it’s not awkward or weird or anything. I just, I feel like she only thinks of me as this big, dumb guy,” he says with surprising force.

“No one thinks you’re a big dumb guy!” Keith says, though that is, in fact, kind of exactly what he thought when he first met Hunk. Shit, now he feels like an asshole.

“You guys know me, though,” Hunk says bitterly. “People who don’t get to know me wouldn’t know that. You know I actually started on tuba? That was what I first played. I switched to trombone when I got to high school cause I got teased so much in middle school for being a big fat tuba player, I just couldn’t handle another four years of being a stereotype.”

“Holy shit, I’m so sorry,” Keith says, locking eyes with Hunk, fingers clenching in the bathmat. “Shit, man.”

“I mean, it’s cool, I love trombone,” Hunk says. “And it’s a little better here cause I’ve got robotics club and people know that I want to be an engineer and stuff, and of course Voltron is just so much fun and it’s so cool. But…I don’t know if Shay knows any of that. Like, if she thinks of me as anything other than the nice guy that she talks to in band sometimes.”

“I feel like she must want to keep talking to you for some reason,” Keith says, though he has exactly zero experience with girls. “That’s a good sign, right? That means that she wants to get to know you more.”

“Yeah, as a _friend_.” Hunk dramatically slaps his hands on his cheeks and slides a little further down the cabinets. “And I know that there’s no such thing as the friend zone, I know that girls don’t need to be anything other than friends and she doesn’t owe me anything for being my friend, I know that, I just…I just want to kiss her and take her to Winter Formal, you know!”

“ _Do_ it!” Lance says, sitting straight up and swaying. “Live your _dreams_!”

“Shut up, you’re drunk,” Hunk says amusedly. “Drink some water while you’re up, I want to see a full mouthful.”

“I feel amazing, you don’t need to worry,” Lance says, reaching for the water with shaking fingers. He takes a dramatically large sip.

“If you stay upright for more than a minute, we’ll believe you,” Keith says.

“Easy fucking peasy,” Lance says, taking another large gulp of water. “Honestly it’s all out of my system now, I am super good, I am flying – “

His eyes go wide and he twists over and pukes.

“Too _much_ water,” he moans. “Fuck.”

“That’s good, buddy, that means you’re almost done. Get it all up.”

There’s the pitter-patter of tiny footsteps and then Pidge appears in the doorway, flushed and frazzled. “Fuck me, is he okay?”

“He’s fine, just getting it all up,” Hunk says.

“I’m so sorry, Jesus fuck. I was talking with – I was – I didn’t look at my phone, I was talking with Toni, shit, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s fine, Pidgey,” Hunk says soothingly, raising his hands. “All good in the hood. Wanna join us?”

Pidge plops down next to Keith, making this bathroom wildly cramped. “Already gone through all the up and downs?”

“Yeah, we should be nearing the end. Who’s Toni? She in band?”

“No,” Pidge says. Her cheeks are tinged suspiciously pink for this innocuous conversation. “No, uh, she’s in my English class, we’re partners on a project coming up about the Scarlet Letter.”

“Hmm,” Hunk says, with a shit-eating little smile. “An entire project about women who didn’t follow the rules. Methinks I sense a pattern.”

“Shut up, you gossipy harpy,” Pidge grumbles. She fusses with her already frizzy hair. It’s totally baffling; Keith’s never seen her like this. “Lance, tell Hunk to shut up.”

“Goppy harspy,” Lance says, which Keith thinks was ‘gossipy harpy’ in some lost tongue.

“Atta boy,” Pidge says.

Lance picks his head up, eyes bloodshot and face pale. He stretches out a hand and pats Hunk on the head. “You tha fuggin’ _best_ ,” he says emphatically.

“Aww, you too Lancey-Lance.”

“And Pidgeon! Wittle Pidgeon. Coo coo. Best bird. _Best_ bird.”

Pidge smiles indulgently.

“And Keith!” He swivels his head to Keith, sitting on the tub. Keith points at his chest, and Lance grins like a drunken sun. “Keif. Keifer Sutherland. We love you. We – “ He hiccups again, takes a deep breath. “Keif. Keith. We _love_ you. We want you around. Want you around.”

Keith’s heart is full, making him blink his eyes rapidly against the wetness there. Jesus, this kid barely knows his own name right now and he’s making Keith cry. “I want you around too, Lance.”

Lance raises his hands in the air and gives a week “Woo!”

“He’s been upright for almost a minute,” Hunk says. “Think you’re ready to go home, bud? You’ve got a nice warm bed and PJ’s waiting for you.”

“PB and J!” Lance cheers.

“I’mma take that as a yes. Come on buddy, work with me here.”

He snakes a strong arm under Lance’s armpit, and Lance flops forward like a sweaty, babbling noodle. Hunk throws a look over his shoulder, and Keith quickly ducks under Lance’s other side. He’s hot, and smells of stale sweat and vomit. It’s not the best look, and it's a complete 180 from when he was wet and chilled in the ocean earlier. Pidge holds the door open, and they drag a floppy Lance down the hall while he attempts to walk but mostly drags his feet and mumbles drunkenly into the fabric of Keith’s shoulder.

Hira meets them in the living room and rolls her eyes. “Again, McClain?”

“I love puppies!” Lance says, apropos of fucking nothing. It makes Hira smile and reach out to ruffle his damp hair.

“Drink lots of water, kid. You guys got him?”

“Yeah, we’re cool,” Hunk says. “Got phone, Lance? Wallet? What else did you bring?”

“My dignity!”

“Yeah, that’s long gone.” Pidge ducks under and pats at his pockets, totally unconcerned. “All here.”

“Thanks for having us,” Hunk says to Hira.

“No problem, glad you all had fun. See you Monday!”

Keith throws Hira a smile as Pidge holds open the door, and as soon as they’re outside the sea air seems to revive Lance.

“Oh, that smells – that smells good,” he says. They were able to park the minivan pretty close, and Pidge wiggles the keys out of Hunk’s back pocket to open all the doors.

“Keith, you sit up front,” Hunk says, voice muffled under Lance’s weight. “I’ll sit with him.”

“Oh, okay,” Keith says. Why does that disappoint him? He bites down on the feelings and climbs up front. Pidge hops up into the driver’s seat (having to almost take a running jump, it’s adorable) and they rumble back to her house, Lance draped across Hunk’s lap in the backseat like a fainting maiden.

“Thanks,” he says at one point. “I – I’m sorry I got drunk again. Thank you. Fank you.”

“It’s okay,” Keith says, and means it. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Aww! Good boy. Bababoy. Boooooosh boy.”

“Yes, I agree as well, shallow and pedantic,” Pidge deadpans, and the whole car cracks up.

When they arrive at the darkened Holt house and all climb out, Keith says, “I can drive him home on the motorcycle, if you want.”

“Aw, that’s sweet,” Hunk says, supporting Lance’s weight almost entirely. “But he can’t sit up on a motorcycle right now, he’ll fall right over. I’ll bring him home, I know where the spare key is. Thank you though!”

“Okay, yeah. No, you’re totally right.” How could he be so stupid? No way can Lance go on a motorcycle right now. What kind of dumbass question was that? Keith’s face is flushed all the way to his ears.

“Hey,” Hunk says, pulling Keith out of his spiral. “Thanks so much tonight, honestly, you were a lifesaver. I know Lance is really grateful.”

“You’re a good egg, Keith,” Pidge says.

Keith smiles back and heads towards his motorcycle.

“You’re good to drive?” Hunk asks.

“Yeah, I’m fine, it’s close. You guys…uh, make sure he’s okay, right?”

“We got him.” Hunk smiles. “See you Monday?”

“See you Monday.”

Keith puts on his helmet, fires up the engine, thrills in the feel of the bike rumbling between his thighs, calming all the tempest in his mind.

The sea breeze follows him home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello good people! I am SO SORRY for the delay - I started a new job today, so real life has been a complete whirlwind. Don't worry, I have not forgotten about this story one bit. Fun fact: Lance singing 'Sorry Not Sorry' was the impetus for this whole trash pile of a story. I heard it and could instantly see Lance singing it, and everything else fell into place afterwards.
> 
> Chapter Title from 'Badlands' by Bruce Springsteen (I swore I wouldn't repeat songs but this lyric is just too good)
> 
> Next chapter is marching band shenanigans, Keith and Dad bonding, and finally a bit of backstory on where Lotor fits into this! Je t'aime my dears, thank you for reading!


	7. Hammer and a Vice

“He told me he was in the mechanics business in England. He was an engineer!”

“Okay, but did he say that it was a family business? Did his parents do the same thing?”

“I think so, yes – “

“See! That’s why it’s the mafia! The mafia is always a family business, the engineer is just a cover for his illicit life of crime!”

“Does the mafia even exist in England?” Shiro wonders aloud. “I always thought it was more of an American institution.”

“ _Peaky Blinders_ ,” Keith says, and Hunk says, “Ooooh, yes, so good.”

“Don’t get off topic,” Lance says. “Allura, the statistics are in, your uncle was in the mafia.”

“Coran would be _terrible_ in the mafia. He talks to everyone about everything. If there’s anyone in my family who could pull off organized crime, it’s me and you know it,” Allura says, hardly looking up from her phone as she says it.

The group falls silent. “I mean, yeah, shit, that’s right,” Lance says.

The band room chatters behind them. The man in question is standing at his podium shuffling papers, and Lance is fairly sure that Coran can hear every word they’re saying and is choosing not to interject because it raises his street cred. They’re lounging on the side steps near the flutes, but nobody’s near their instrument even though they’re all in full uniform and ready to march. Lance had a fantastic plate of pasta for dinner before call time, and he’s on cloud nine.

Hira weaves her way to the front of the room, frowning down at her phone. Coran looks up at her shock of pink hair, and she shows him the screen. His face turns down in a frown as well.

“What’s going on, Coran?” Allura says. She’s always completely in tune with her uncle, and he with her; it’s been just the two of them for so long that they’re always in sync. Lance is jealous of, it sometimes; there’s so many people in his family that he doesn’t have a connection that strong with anybody, and it’d be nice sometimes to have someone that’s always touching base with you.

It’s Hira who answers, turning to the group. “It’s Sendak and Thace. They’re not coming to the game. They’ve got both food poisoning from some bad burritos.”

“Well, I’m glad they’re taking time for themselves to feel better, but I’m a bit worried about our instrumentation.” Coran frowns and strokes his mustache. “I can live without one tuba, but two poses a bit of a problem. The whole sound will be off.”

Pidge, who up until now has been totally buried in her ‘I’ll Make a Man Out of You’ score, finally looks up at the group.

Coran finally finishes chewing over his thoughts and turns to Hunk. “My friend, would you mind terribly filling in on tuba today?”

“No, not at all!” Hunk says. “Totally cool, no worries.”

“Do you think you know the marching? We can put you behind someone so all you have to do is follow.”

“Yeah, I’ll be able to figure it out.”

His smile is a bit strained, clearly putting aside his feelings for the good of the band. Lance has been doing his level best to forget literally everything about middle school, but some things still stand out; other boys making fart jokes whenever Hunk walked anywhere with his tuba, jokes and jabs and asking him if his belly was big enough for it, the girls in band ignoring him even when all he was doing was trying to say hi because he’s just that damn nice. Nobody’s done anything like that at Garrison High, but Hunk’s got the same look in his eyes, like he would do literally anything to never feel like that again.

Pidge’s eyes have darted between Coran and Hunk for the past minute, and she finally speaks up. “Coran, I’ll play too. You need two tubas, right?”

“Well yes, two tubas would be excellent!”

“Pidge, you don’t have to,” Hunk says, but he’s already trying not to smile.

“I want to! It’s been forever since I’ve played tuba. Come on, run me through the music.”

“Aww yes, dynamic duo over here!” Hunk highfives Pidge, smile bright and sunny again. “The boys are back in town!”

“Are you even physically capable of holding a tuba?” Keith asks, and he looks genuinely terrified for her.

“If I’m capable of holding up this band I’m sure I’m capable of carrying a tuba,” she shoots back right away, and even Shiro has to laugh.

“Hurry children, we’re lining up soon!” Coran shoos them away, and Lance and Keith walk back over to get their instruments.

“Dude, that’s going to be hysterical,” Lance says, putting his trumpet together with practiced hands. “Pidge is literally shorter than a tuba, if she manages to march in it then she should get an Academy Award for sheer badassness.”

“And then if she’s playing then it’ll help Hunk feel better about playing the tuba, right?” Keith says, and Lance does a double-take.

“When did Hunk tell you that? He’s super sensitive about that, _we_ barely even talk about it!”

“While you were passed out at Hira’s party,” Keith says with a little smile. Lance’s face heats up.

“Well, okay. I’m glad you two felt the need to _bond_ while I was busy throwing up my _internal organs_!”

“You were fine, you just wanted to moan and puke and eat PB and J’s. I wouldn’t exactly call it a medical crisis.”

“How dare you – “

“Battle stations!” Coran yells. “Miss Holt, how are we holding up?”

Nobody answers, Hunk currently too focused on lowering a trumpet onto Pidge’s bony shoulders. Lance takes one look and immediately whips out his phone, because it’s one of the greatest sights he’s ever seen or will ever seen – she is so tiny, and the tuba is so big, that as soon as it’s on her shoulders it increases her width and height by a solid food in each direction. She gives a tiny _oof_ and shifts her feet, testing out the keys. With Hunk watching nervously and the whole band turned in her direction, she finally leans forward to the mouthpiece and busts out in a perfect first line of _Seven Nation Army._ The whole band (including Keith) bursts out in cheers.

“Best band game ever!” Hunk yells, and Pidge beams at him.

The air is slightly chiller outside – it’s the third game of the year, so they’re halfway through September, and it’s not quite as sweltering as it was in August. The Holts cheer and wave when they see Pidge in the tuba, and Keith waves to his dad like usual once they’re in the seats. Lance feels like all he’s been doing lately is watching Keith from his peripheral vision, making sure he was doing fine, not too overwhelmed or needing a break. Last game, he was constantly checking in on Keith, explaining traditions or dances or whatnot, and Keith spent ten minutes in the bathroom before the field show and Lance was two seconds away from going to get him before he arrived just in time for them to march out. Today, though, he seems comfortable; he’s not a smiler like Hunk, but he seems chill, pale skin warm in the field lights and fingers steady as he thumbs through the flip book.

  _I think this is going to be a good night,_ Lance thinks.

There’s nothing like a band that’s starting to settle into themselves; when Coran calls _Take on Me_ at the first break, they sound clear and together, nobody rushing and no instruments out of tune. Lance isn’t scared of the high trumpet parts anymore; he throws himself into them, climbing as high as he can, feeling like his trumpet is an extension of his arm, a whip that he can control perfectly to stretch all the way to the heavens. Shiro’s been working with the drumline, so they’ve got their own cadences down. Coran calls for one of their more complicated pieces, and Shiro’s snare part is so fast that he’s sweating by the time they’re done. Allura looks a little starstruck, and it takes her a few seconds to blink herself back to Coran. Lance nudges Keith and points this out; without even needing to say words, Keith understands exactly what Lance wants him to look at, and happily raises his eyebrows at Lance.

Keith spends more time than usual looking back at the low brass, and Lance can’t blame him. Hunk and Pidge are the absolute dream team, because they’re clearly having so much fun. Coran calls _Pretty Fly_ and two awesome things happen; Keith actually screams along with the band on the ‘uh-huhs’, and Pidge and Hunk lead a coordinated tuba dance during the tuba solo in the middle of the song, rhythmically flashing their bells up and down. Hunk is a ray of buttery sunshine, making everyone laugh and acing his tuba parts. His problem was never with tuba himself, and Lance forgot how amazing it is to watch him play. Pidge is kicking ass too, but she’s completely red-faced by the time they’re done; Lance hears her say to Hunk, “ _Fuck_ this is heavy, what happens if I pass out wearing this?”

“Well, I’d come after you, and I would be too frazzled to take my tuba off, so then we just hope somebody’s recording because two tubas falling over each other is YouTube gold,” Hunk replies.

When they’re heading down to the field Lance is stationed at the tuba exit, hands braced to help Pidge out, but she only glares at him and bats his hands away. “Get outta here with your chivalry shit.”

All the same, she can’t see her feet, so when she stumbles going down the steps, Lance grabs the side of the instrument and steadies her. She gives him a reluctant ‘thank you’ pat and Lance counts it as a win.

The field smells crisp and clean, a tiny breeze moving the feathers of his Shako when they stand downfield before marching on. Lance adjusts his gloves and looks up at the scoreboard. 21-3 against the Fighting Lions, so a standard Friday night.

“Why doesn’t the whole band have a cheer?” Keith asks. “Seems like the kind of thing you guys would do.”

“I mean, I promise if you yell ‘What team’ you will get a _synchronized_ answer.”

“I mean, a band cheer that doesn’t involve High School Musical.”

Lance makes such a dramatic head tilt that any minute now Coran is going to yell at him for breaking formation. “Keith Kogane! When did you have time to watch High School Musical in between riding your motorcycle and studying the blade?”

“It was on!” He defends. “I didn’t mean to watch it! I liked one of the songs!”

“Which song, which song?”

“Band, attention!” Coran raises his hands, and everyone snaps to attention.

“ _Which fucking song?”_ Lance hisses out of the corner of his mouth, trumpet turned forward.

“Mark time!” Everyone marches in place, feet and knees rising at exactly the same time.

“Keith, I swear to fucking God, you tell me what High School Musical song you liked – “

Shiro counts them off, and Lance sees Keith’s smug smile as they raise their horns and play. It’s the most furious opening notes of _Fat Bottomed Girls_ that Lance has ever played.

Even though they’ve seen this show twice before, the crowd still gets into it, cheering for the lion formation and for the final massive parts on _We are the Champions_. Most of their marching competitions are in the spring, so they’ve got lots of time to perfect and add to this routine, but Lance is already feeling pretty good about it. They’re defending regional champions; senior year, Lance is hoping they get to travel, go to Disney World like the other big bands. Right now, they’re sounding absolutely spectacular. He can’t turn around and look at the tubas, so he has to wait until he’s curving into his next spot to take a look at the tubas across from him. Pidge and Hunk are both doing just fine; when either of them found time to learn the tuba part as well as their own, he’ll never know.

When they break off the field, Keith participates in the band cheer, giving a solid ‘whoop!’ Lance grins at him.

“Sounding good there, cowboy.”

“It’s a fun part,” Keith says. “None of my other bands have ever been this fun. Or difficult, actually.”

“None of them have ever had a fellow trumpet who was so wildly attractive either.”

Keith rolls his eyes, and Lance remembers, with a sudden rush, that Coran still hasn’t picked a trumpet section leader. It’s still just him and Keith, even now that all the new kids are settled in; is there something Coran’s waiting for, something he needs to see?

His chest clenches in anxiety; but Hunk says something and Keith grins in the wash of the field lights, and Lance decides it can’t be too important tonight. He can't believe he even forgot it at all; it just hasn't been a priority in a while.

Before the next time out, Coran stands up on the podium, thumbing through the flip book and fiddling with his mustache.

“Can’t decide?” Shiro yells up.

“There’s too many good choices!” He shouts back. “Anyone got suggestions?”

The entire band starts shouting, every single person bellowing their favorite song number so loud that people in the next section startle and look over at them. Lance even thinks Keith is shouting something. Lance puts his hands over his mouth and screams,

“Seventeen! Seventeen!”

Several people around him catch on, and then the whole band is shouting “Seventeen! Do seventeen!”

“What’s seventeen?” Keith asks, flipping through the book.

“We haven’t practiced seventeen!” Coran yells back. “The piccolos aren’t ready!”

Keith finally finds the song – _You Can Call Me Al._

“Coran, I can do it!” Allura says, a massive smile splitting her face. “Put the mic right on me!”

“Oh my God, _yes_! Allura’s got this! All hail Princess Allura!”

“Allura, just you – ? “

“I’ll project!” She’s almost bouncing in her seat. “Coran, you know I know this!”

“Let the lady play!” Hunk booms out, with Pidge following up, “Let the lady play!”

“What is going on?” Keith asks, but it’s more curious than frustrated.

“ _You Can Call Me Al_ has a gnarly piccolo solo, the other piccolos definitely aren’t ready but Allura can do it in her sleep,” Lance whispers quickly. “Watch her, it’s beyond cool.”

“Coran won’t let us – “

“Oh, Coran is easily influenced by the whim of the majority. Coran, give the people what they want! Overthrow the bourgeoisie! Seize the means of production! Let her play!”

The piccolos are looking over the music with colorless faces like they’ve just seen how the world ends, but Allura is standing with her back straight, chin up, and eyes bright. Moments like these remind Lance of why he had a crush on this girl from the first second she introduced herself at band camp; they’re deep friends now, and he still thinks she’s the most amazing girl he’s ever met.

Coran stands firm against the shouting of an entire band for another moment, and then sighs and holds up his fingers, first one and then seven. The band roars.

“Sick part for us too, you’re gonna love this,” Lance tells Keith as they pull instruments up.

Coran adjusts one of the mics so that it’s directly in front of Allura. He gestures at his throat and Allura nods, and Lance can’t help his grin.

“Tempo’s quite fast for this one, so drums stay with me and everyone stay with the drums.” Coran raises his hands and starts to conduct. “One-two-three-four-“

The trumpets rip out first, fast and proud over a thick tuba part and driving snare clicks. Lance always feels like he’s flying with this song, like it’s the trumpet at its best and brightest, where he can propel the whole band forward, launch them through danceable bridges. Beside him, Keith’s keeping up easily, tapping his foot, taking his brief pause in the music to look back at Hunk and Pidge laying down the bassline.

“Get ready,” Lance says when they get to the drum solo. “You’re gonna love this.”

Everyone else drops off, and Allura’s solo piccolo lights up the stadium, bright and dancing, flitting up and down the staff. It’s just her, the tubas and the snares, and while the other piccolos watch her in awe she plays like a professional, looking intently down at her music even as her fingers move like she was born to play this song. Keith’s mouth actually drops open a bit, and Coran beams down at her while he keeps conducting.

“Stop drooling, you gotta play,” Lance chuckles, and Keith shoots him a look as they raise their horns. They come back in with the cymbals, and the crashes feel like they linger in the night air.

The final chorus is nothing but fun, the whole band tapping their feet and swaying, because this song is joy and happiness and the thrill of music. Lance takes the trumpet counterpoint in the last measure, a swaying harmony that leaves Keith and the other kids to handle the blasting melody. The song ends as triumphantly as it started, and not even Keith can stop his cheer.

Coran leans down to give Allura a double high five, beaming underneath his moustache. All of her piccolos and the drummers are cheering her too, thumbs up and high fives, but Lance can’t help it. He clambers over Keith, almost trips down the steps to the piccolos, where he scoops her up into a massive hug while she laughs and laughs.

“Lance, put me down!”

“Shan’t,” he says, in a terrible imitation of her accent that only makes her laugh harder. “I won’t put you down until you’re knighted for piccolo badassery!”

“Lance, it was just a solo,” she says bashfully, looking down at him with white eyes and pink cheeks.

“I know,” he replies, slowly putting her back on the ground. “But God, you crushed it.”

She grins at him, her full smile, nestling into his shoulder for a moment while he rubs her back.

“Love you, Lance,” she says, and God, his heart is so full.

“Love you too, princess.”

When he gets back up to the trumpets, Keith’s got a weird look on his face.

“That was…a lot of hugging.”

“At Garrison High, we hug people when they kick ass at music.”

“That all it was?” Keith’s eyebrow raise is teasing, but his voice is a bit shaky, insecure. Insecure over what? Over Lance hugging Allura? Over him saying that he loved her? Why would that make Keith insecure?

“Dude, we are aggressively just friends,” Lance says without thinking. “I had a crush on her for all of freshman year and she rejected me at least forty-seven times – “

“Fifty,” Hunk mutters under his breath from behind them.

“And now I’m so glad that she did, because she’s one of my best friends. That’s all. Just really enthusiastic, platonic friendship.”

Keith nods and looks back at his music, his face giving nothing away.

When they play _Hey Baby_ in the third quarter, Lance watches to see if Keith sings.

He does. Quietly, and not to anybody else, but he sings.

It’s more than enough.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith found his happy place when he was eleven years old – on his bed, door closed, laptop in front of him and guitar in his lap, learning to play Red Hot Chili Peppers and Green Day and Jane’s Addiction. He’s seventeen now, and he actually has friends and a social life, but still the first thing he does once his homework is done is get his guitar out and dick around. (Sometimes he’ll do that before his homework is done, but YOLO. Do people still say YOLO? Keith has no idea. He would ask his friends, but either way they'd just start saying nothing but YOLO in totally inappropriate circumstances and nobody needs that. These guys will make memes out of a gust of wind.)

This Tuesday night, he’s just finished a run-through of _Snow (Hey Oh)_ that’s left him buzzing and eager for more. Outside, the night is windy and hot, kicking out any of the fall chill that was just starting to slip into the air. Lance told him, one windy morning during marching practice, that down here they’re called the Santa Ana winds, and that they make people go crazy, lose their minds and do things they regret. Keith was terrified when he heard that – he doesn’t need anything else making him do things he regrets – but if these are the Santa Anas tonight, they’re not making him feel crazy. They’re making him feel hungry.

On a whim, he pulls up the tabs for _Born to Run_ by Bruce Springsteen.

He clicks on the first link he finds and squints at the screen, leaning over his guitar. He’s not sure what’s so special about it; there’s some weird suspended chords and a cool-looking guitar breakdown, but otherwise it looks like any other rock song. He starts strumming, slowly picking out the chords, ignoring the words to focus on his fingering. He has to look up a couple of the chords, keeps the transitions slow, loses himself in the steady push of discovery.

He’s startled by a knock on the door.

Keith looks up in surprise just as his dad pokes his head through the door. “Hey, Keith…sorry to bother you…”

“No, it’s cool,” Keith says, heart spiking in his chest. “Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong, don’t worry.” His dad comes in, a furrow in his brows as he stands in the doorway. “I was just…are you playing _Born to Run_ in here?”

“Oh, uh. Yeah.”

His dad is clearly trying to rein in his surprise and doing a terrible job. “I didn’t know you liked Springsteen.”

“I don’t, really, just. You know that rock band I told you about that I’m in?”

His dad nods. He was so thrilled when Keith told him over dinner one night that he almost cried. It was ten kinds of embarrassing for both of them.

“Well, Pidge, the sax player, she thinks we should play this song for our competition. Like, she’s obsessed with it, she keeps talking about it, so I just…looked it up.”

“I mean, it’s one of the greatest rock songs ever written,” his dad says immediately, and Keith can’t keep the surprise off his face. “It’s somewhere on the top 50 on the official Rolling Stone greatest songs ever chart. It’s been a crowd pleaser since the 70’s.”

Keith had no idea it was that popular; knowing Pidge’s family, he figured it was some obscure thing that the Holts praised for its musical genius but lack of commercial success. “Oh, cool.”

His dad jerks his head to the guitar. “Are you guys switching up the tempo? You were playing it a lot slower than it originally goes, that could sound really cool.”

Keith flushes, though his dad didn’t mean it judgmentally. “No, I just don’t know it well. Or at all.”

“You’ve never heard _Born to Run?_ ”

Keith shrugs.

His dad’s eyebrows are up in his hair. “I have failed as a parent,” he mutters. “Come on, follow me. Leave the guitar.”

_Well shit_ , Keith thinks, as he gets up and follows. This is the most they’ve talked in months. His dad leads him through their bare-bones house to the study, which is mostly furnished by scattered boxes. With each subsequent move during the Koganes’ nomadic existence, their possessions dwindled until moving and resettling was a seamless operation, barely anything getting carried over to the next place except for bare essentials. Keith could unpack his new room in a matter of hours. His mom liked that it made moving easy; sometimes Keith felt like a turtle, taking just his shell across the country. It was easy to feel even more unmoored in a new place when he brought little more than his clothes and guitar.

His dad flicks on the light and digs into a box of records. Keith remembers in Texas, his dad’s records filled shelves and shelves in the study. Now there’s only a small box left. He feels a stab of anger towards his mother, for the existence that she forced them to live – culling all creature comforts, forcing them to live like they were on the run, everything to make her happy, make her feel like she was still on base even when she came home. He closes his eyes, tries to settle it down. She’s gone, and for the first time it feels like it might have been a good thing.

His dad’s set up the old record player, plugging it into the speakers and dusting off the needle. He finally pulls out the right sleeve with a sigh and holds it up for Keith. The front side shows a bearded white man, smirking into his sleeve, holding a guitar across his hips like he’s going to conquer the world with it. His dad flips it around, and on the back beside the lettering Keith sees a black guy wearing a fedora and playing a saxophone, looking right at the camera with bright eyes.

“The album is called ‘Born to Run’ too,” his dad explains, pulling it out of the sleeve. Keith’s completely at attention. “Came out in…’75, I think. Yeah, it was ’75, I was fifteen.”

“Who’s on the back?”

“Clarence Clemons,” his dad says, voice strangely fond. Right, that’s the sax player that Pidge idolizes. “You’ll hear him in a sec…”

Keith’s honestly never seen him actually use this record player; if he has, it was so long ago and so many moves ago that it’s completely buried in his memory. But it must mean so much to him, if he lugged it across states when so many other things got jettisoned out. He fits the needle into the grooves, and static fills the room. After a moment, Keith hears a lonesome harmonica and a wanderlust piano, weaving together into something haunting, plaintive and hopeful.

“What’s this?” Keith asks, just as his dad picks the needle up and stops the beautiful song.

“That was _Thunder Road_ , it’s the first track. I forgot _Born to Run_ is actually on the second side. Hold tight…”

This time when the needle hits, the song that comes out is fierce; it feels like it pushes against the windows. In the first ten seconds, Keith can hear guitars, drums, a tenor sax, a piano, a glockenspiel, a wall of sound that hits him right in the chest. His dad sits down against the ratty old couch and Keith plops down next to him.

“In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream…at night we ride through the mansions of glory in suicide machines…” A man sings.

“This is _Born to Run_?”

His dad nods with a smile.

Keith gets sucked in quickly, to that gravelly, growly voice telling a story of riding and running over a beautiful bassline. The guitar riff at the chorus is powerful, more powerful than he realized at first, and he finds himself waiting for it. He can see why Pidge thinks they should play it, from an instrumental perspective at least – it’s a tough song, and it’s got literally all of their instruments.

“Wendy let me in, I wanna be your friend, I want to guard your dreams and visions – “

“Pidge said something about a sax solo?” Keith keeps his voice down, not wanting to interrupt the song.

“It’s coming up…you can’t miss it, I promise.”

He was right; the sax solo hits like a firework, and Keith can’t help but grin because he can _absolutely_ see Pidge playing this. He’s imagining a tiny baby Pidge with a sax as big as her, dancing around her living room and wailing on this sax solo.

The bridge after the solo is suave and luscious, and it builds up to that badass guitar breakdown that Keith saw earlier, lightning-fast which he’s honestly not sure if he’s capable of. He’s completely taken aback by the octave jump in Bruce’s vocals on the final chorus, but honestly he still doesn’t see Voltron playing this. It’s the vocals; Lance is a great singer (a really good singer…way better than Keith ever thought he would be), but his talent is in his range, how he can handle incredibly high parts like _Sorry Not Sorry._ Keith doesn’t think he can really pull this song off; it’s so masculine, so rumbling, pulled from the tendons and bled on stage.

The song finishes and slides into the next one. Keith and his dad sit in silence; Keith knows the song was probably at least four minutes long, but it somehow feels done too soon. He wants it back.

“Well?” His dad asks, looking over at him.

“It’s a good fucking song,” Keith says, and his dad cracks up.

“Yeah, it is. You can’t imagine, when this first came out…this was revolutionary. It was like seeing in color for the first time, after years of black and white. It was like someone was finally speaking directly to me, to all of us.”

“Jeez,” Keith says, at the raw emotion on his dad’s face, the smile that’s lighting him up from the inside.

“Oh yeah, there’s a reason all of us old folks love Bruce. Nobody was bigger for me, the President could’ve come to my house and I would’ve asked for the E Street Band instead. And seeing them live…”

“Yeah?”

“Bruce Springsteen is one of the best live performers of all time, period. Hold on, let me show you, there’s all kinds of bootleg concert videos online…”

He walks over and pauses the record player, and Keith feels strangely empty. They walk back into the living room, his dad fiddling on his phone the whole time, and when he finally pulls it up and casts it on the screen Keith doesn’t even mind helping him figure out the right remote for the 200th time.

“Here we go, let you see one from the 70’s. I was at this concert, actually.”

“No shit?” Keith swearing would never have flown while his mom was home, but his dad doesn’t even blink.

“Yeah, it was ’78, I was in New York visiting a friend and we found out he was playing this concert in Jersey. We jumped right in the car and begged the theater for the last tickets they had. We were in the nosebleeds but it was still absolutely amazing. I shelled out the next year for the good tickets when he came to the Thunderdome in Atlanta.”

This surprises Keith, in the way that he's always surprised whenever he hears things about his parents' lives before him, but the more he thinks about it the more it makes sense. His dad's pretty settled down now, but he's still the one who got Keith into motorcycles and he's got a wicked eyebrow scar that he still won't tell Keith about, so it makes sense that he was a Springsteen groupie at shitty little bars. His dad presses play. The video’s in black and white, from a tiny stage in a tiny theater. Just like the recording, the song starts with a punch, with Bruce screaming into the microphone. Live, Keith can hear the predominance of the sax, the driving piano, the thrashing drums. Bruce looks so young, with sweaty curly hair, and his voice is completely raw; he growls, he croons, he belts.

“They’re all dancing,” Keith says. The piano player’s jamming out, Clarence Clemons is doing a funny little kick, the bass player’s getting into it. _It looks like us_ , Keith thinks. _During You Can Call Me Al. That’s how we look._

Clarence seems to double the tempo for his solo, and Bruce waits off to the side with a grin on his face. Keith laughs out loud when he sees the piano player doing wild runs during the breakdown, because _that_ has Allura written all over it.

And then they’re back in, and Bruce is singing about broken heroes on a last chance power drive, emotion written plainly on his face and his voice warbling and soaring.

“Till then tramps like us, baby we were born to run! Come on with me, tramps like us – baby we were born to run!”

He leans forward, bringing the whole mic with him, singing right at the crowd, all of them getting into it with him, sharing in his joy and his wildness, and that’s when Keith sees it.

Lance could sing this song. Lance could _crush_ this song. Because it’s not about what his voice sounds like, it’s the emotion that bleeds from it, and Lance is the most open-hearted person he knows. He’s done nothing but give himself freely, every little bit of himself, and he could do it again, singing this, singing at the crowd and hoping that they’ll sing back, the absolute rawness of performing live and giving all of yourself.

And they’d all be behind him, all of Voltron, and Keith can see it, he can see it right fucking now and he can see it in four months. They can play this song. They can win with this song.

“Shit,” he says out loud, just to say something, and his dad laughs and claps his on the shoulder.

“If I’d known you’d like it so much, I would’ve shown you years ago.”

“No, I wouldn’t have appreciated it until now,” Keith says, completely honest, and his dad blinks in surprise. “Thank you. For showing me this. Thank you so much.”

His dad’s hand stays on his shoulder, rubbing softly.

“It was my absolute pleasure,” he says.

 

* * *

 

 

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #tendonitisoftheasshole**

**Allura:** Alright so everyone’s got the plan for tomorrow’s practice – we all bring our marching instruments as well as Voltron instruments

**Allura:** Head for Casa Garrett

**Hunk:** mom gave me the go-ahead, I’ve got dad’s pick up truck for the drums and tubas *praise hands emoji*

**Lance:** Hunk you are a gentleman and a scholar

**Hunk:** I know dahling, I know

**Shiro:** And then we’re going to test out this awesome new song with full band instruments and Lance’s vocals

**Shiro:** Do I need marching snare?

**Lance:** No definitely just your kit, we’ll need the whole thing

**Pidge:** It’s gonna blow your minds I promise

**Lance:** Low expectations, pidge

**Lance:** Undersell and overperform, that’s my motto

**Hunk:** That is the exact opposite way you do literally everything

**Lance:** rUDE

**Keith:** so I was actually thinking

**Keith:** I think we should try playing born to run

**Pidge:** WHAT

**Pidge:** WHAT WHAT WHAT

**Keith:** Yeah idk, I was listening to it and playing it and I think we could kick ass on it

**Pidge:** YOU SEE WHY IT IS THE GREATEST SONG EVER WRITTEN???

**Pidge:** I LOVE WHEN MY GENIUS IS ACKNOWLEDGED

**Pidge:** THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

**Shiro:** This is a surprise coming from you Keith

**Keith:** It’s a good song

**Keith:** I think it’ll help us win

**Lance:** Isn’t that song super old?? Will people even know it? We want the people to SING ALONG not fall asleep

**Keith:** No one will fall asleep to this song, I promise

**Keith:** Just try it okay?

**Pidge:** Try it and you will SEE THE LIGHT

**Pidge:** CLARENCE CLEMONS

**Pidge:** I WAS BORN TO PLAY THAT SAX SOLO

**Lance:** You are like really gay for this song

**Lance:** This is fascinating

**Pidge:** Okay so 1) Bruce Springsteen is the butchest of the butch and 2) fuck you and 3) yeah whatever you’re gay for despacito so fuck off

**Lance:** Despacito is a fucking musical revelation, and you’re racist

**Shiro:** Nobody in this chat is using either racist or gay correctly

**Shiro:** Just wanted to point that out

**Hunk:** That word…I do not think it means what you think it means

**Allura:** AS YOU WISH

**Keith:** Great movie

**Lance:** KEITH LIKES THE PRINCESS BRIBE?///

**Lance:** *bride whatever

**Lance:** WHICH REMINDS ME HE ALSO LIKES HIGH SCHOOL MSUICAL AND WON’T TELL ME WHAT HIS FAVORITE SONG IS

**Hunk:** Dude it’s bet on it, keith is a bet on it kind of guy

**Hunk:** No question

**Allura:** No it’s bop to the top

**Pidge:** No it’s humuhumunukunukuapua'a

**Lance:** what the genuine fuck how did you know that? Did you type it all out? How did you know how to spell it? Is that even a fucking song?

**Pidge:** Fuck outta here fake HSM fan

**Lance:** STOP DISTRACTING KEITH WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE SONG???

**Keith:** bet on it was really dumb

**Keith:** I liked gotta go my own way and pretty much the whole soundtrack to 3

**Hunk:** Wow

**Allura:** Did not see that one coming

**Lance:** Do you wanna get married??? Tbh that was the hottest thing anyone’s ever said

**Keith:** You’re weird

**Lance:** Yeah whatever troy Bolton WHAT TEAM

**Pidge:** WILDCATS

**Hunk:** WILDCATS!!

**Shiro:** Wildcats

**Allura:** Wildcats!!

**Keith:** Wildcats

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #we’reallinthistogether #whattimeisit #voltrontime**

**Lance:** You all make me so proud

 

* * *

 

 

Unloading their instruments at Hunk’s house makes Keith feel like a gunner in the army – there’s such a coordinated effort to get everything out of the truck bed and into the garage that he feels like a solider under Allura’s command. It’s only when the last instrument (Keith’s amp) is unloaded that he looks up and sees that they were helped by two very friendly adults.

“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Garrett!” Allura shouts, polite as ever. She’s still in the truck bed unpacking cables.

“Hello Allura!” The woman calls back. “Hello everyone! Wow, you really have everything but the kitchen sink!”

“Kitchen sink’s coming in the next round!” Allura calls back, and the dad snorts.

“I know these hooligans, so you must be Keith,” he says. “I’m Hunk’s dad.”

“Nice to meet you,” Keith says, straightening up and waving.

“Nice to meet you, it’s nice to see them making new friends! Hunk and Lance have been attached at the hip since they were eating boogers at second grade sleepovers, I’m glad they were capable of hanging out with new people!”

There’s a synchronized yell of “ _Mom_!” and “Mrs. Garrett!” from the appropriate parties. Mrs. Garrett just laughs mischievously. She’s tall but a lot less stout than Keith thought she would be; Mr. Garrett is apparently where Hunk gets his build, as he’s just as barrel-chested and strong. They’re both warm and smiley, and the garage is neat and organized, just like Hunk’s locker. It makes Keith smile, as much from fondness as from jealously. He woke up this morning feeling completely drained from his talk with his dad, and he has no idea how he’s going to get through a whole Voltron practice. They’re awesome but Jesus are they tiring.

Pidge darts up and gives both parents a hug and then imperiously flaps her hands at them. “I love you both but go, we have a lot of work to do!”

“ _Pidge!_ ” Shiro yells, but Mr. Garrett just laughs.

“Of course, my queen. Call us when you’re ready for dinner, we ordered wings!”

“Musical fusion stops for no food,” Pidge says.

“Um, this musical fusion does!” Hunk replies.

Shiro finishes screwing in his crash cymbal, and then everyone except for Lance is standing with two instruments beside them. Hunk closes the garage door and Pidge darts around handing out musical scores. Lance takes his vocal parts, and Keith feels a strange emptiness. It’s been a long time since he’s played trumpet without Lance.

“Alright, so we’re going to have to do some more tweaks, but I wrote up rough drafts of _Sorry Not Sorry_ and _Born to Run._ These are just basic melodies, I left the fills and more intricate stuff to you guys to personalize, since you’ll be the one playing them.”

“Jesus, Pidgeon,” Lance says, “you wrote scores for _two_ songs? Did you _sleep_ last night?”

“Absolutely not, I’m on my fourth sugar free Red Bull.” Her glasses flash and Keith gets a stab of irrational fear at this tiny mad scientist. “When you’re in the zone you’re in the zone, buddy. No force on this earth – or any other – will stop me from playing _Born to Run_.”

Allura’s bopping her head and nodding, looking over at her piano parts, and Hunk looks pretty pleased too. Keith can’t help but shift nervously on his feet, looking at their reactions; he’ll feel like an idiot if he suggested they play this song and everyone hates it. Pidge catches his eye and gives him a cocky smile.

_Don’t worry_ , she mouths. Easy for her to say.

“What the hell are these _lyrics_ ,” Lance says.

“Didn’t you listen to it?”

“Yeah but this is a lot of words!”

Keith grits his teeth. “You’re a singer, you’re supposed to use a lot of _words_!”

Lance raises an eyebrow at him over his lyric sheet and it infuriates Keith to no end. “Sorry I don’t have boring old songs from the 80s memorized, O God of Lyrics.”

“Lance, don’t be a twat,” Pidge interjects. “You go listen to the song again and get a feel for the melody. Rest of us, half-tempo. Don’t worry about getting it right yet, I want us all to get the emotion first.” She hefts up her saxophone and clips it in. “Alright Shiro, you ready?”

He puts his sheet music on a makeshift stand of boxes and nods. “Okay, everybody on four – one, two, three, four – “

The first run-through is nothing special. Hunk can’t get the timing right on the chorus, Shiro misses a fill, Allura’s in the wrong key, Keith can’t pull off the guitar breakdown. Pidge’s solo is the only good part – she has it literally memorized, and it’s so badass that the Garretts come out from the house afterwards to congratulate her in person. Keith’s so flustered he can barely appreciate it.

“Come on, let’s go again,” he says, clenching fingers on his pick. _Come on dumbass, you got this, you can do this, you got this._

The second run-through’s not much better. Lance comes out halfway through and watches silently from on top of old boxes, and it doesn’t help Keith’s performance. At half-tempo the song's almost ten minutes long, and Keith is exhausted when they’re done.

“You guys picked a hard song,” Hunk comments.

“That’s why it’s worth it!” Pidge says desperately. “Come on guys, this song is going to win it for us, I swear. Nobody else can handle it, we’re the only ones!”

“Lance, did you get a chance to look at the lyrics?” Allura calls out.

“I did.” He doesn’t elaborate, and his face isn’t giving anything away.

“And?” Keith can’t help himself.

“And I’m surprised you picked it, that’s all.”

Keith flushes and looks down at his guitar. “Sorry that I like actual music and not bullshit pop like you.”

“ _Hey_ , you absolute asshole!” Lance protests, and Shiro stands up.

“Okay, you two, not tonight. Let’s go inside and get some wings, and when we come down we’ll do _Sorry Not Sorry._ ”

“We can’t give up on this song – “ Pidge says immediately.

“We’re not giving up on it, we’re going to take a break. This is the most complicated song we’ve ever played, we’ve got to give ourselves time. Come on, everyone inside.”

The Garretts are happy to see them up, and there’s a spread of wings and fries and sodas. Lance heads directly away from the group, over to engage Mr. Garrett in conversation about something inane. Keith knows him well enough to tell that this is a cool-down technique, and apparently so does everyone else since they leave him alone. They all end up watching some show (whatever the new version of _American Idol_ is, Keith has no idea) and as usual, Keith sits quietly. He gets the weird thought that for each one of these he has – every time he hangs out at a friend’s house, interacting with their parents, existing somewhere that isn’t his room or the midnight streets on his bike – he counteracts all those years of loneliness, just a little bit; a swipe of balm over the roughness of him, covering more and more of the wound each time. Even when he’s at his most asshole self, even when he’s barely a functioning social being right now, Mrs. Garrett still offers him more cole slaw, and Shiro asks him his opinion on who should win, and Allura sees him buried deep in his thoughts and doesn’t say a word, just rubs the palm of her hand across his kneecap, a quick friendly swipe. She keeps facing the TV, not making a big deal out of it, and Keith thinks that he’s not sure if these people know just how much they’ve helped him.

Or maybe they do realize, and that’s why they keep doing it. The thought makes him smile, looking down at his lap.

When they break to head down to the garage, Keith’s refreshed and ready to try again. He smiles when Hunk hefts up his tuba, and Allura says,

“Oh yes, let’s do it.”

“Alright, this one is gonna read kind of like band music,” Pidge says. “Lance, the mic’s working?”

“10-4, Pidgeon.” Lance’s voice pops from the speakers, and he gives a wicked grin. “I’d like to first offer an apology to all of the lovely neighbors of the Garrett family, who are about to hear some very loud music at nine o’clock on a Wednesday.”

“They won’t be mad for long, we’re gonna nail this one,” Pidge says. Allura’s got her piccolo up, Keith holding the trumpet – it feels like a smaller version of their usual band practice. Lance is the oddity, holding the mic loosely with burning eyes.

Shiro does a marching band countoff on the snare, and it starts with just Hunk on the bassline and Shiro on rim clicks. Right away it’s thick, it’s wonderful, Hunk’s grooving. Lance clears his throat and comes in.

“Now I’m out here looking like revenge, feeling like a ten, the best I’ve ever been…and yeah I know how bad it must hurt to see me like this, but it gets worse – “

Allura comes in on the piano parts transcribed for piccolo, complimenting Hunk’s bassline and Lance’s vocals, which are even stronger when he’s not plastered and trying to project over a whole party. Pidge comes in on the buildup to the chorus, and Keith counts measures until he finally comes in on the chorus.

“Baby, I’m sorry – “ Lance sings, and the instruments respond with the ‘I’m not sorry’ phrase, a call and response that kicks ass, Lance’s vocals trading back and forth with the instruments. Lance starts to groove, closing his eyes and crooning, Pidge’s lyric sheet totally unnecessary for this song. It’s been a long time since Keith’s been the only trumpet and he can’t help but think he sounds amazing alongside Lance, the way that they compliment each other perfectly.

Hunk holds them down all through the bridge, when everyone joins in on the main bassline groove. Pidge breaks off and plays the harmony while Lance is leading up to his high note, and Keith peeks up from his music to watch Lance sing. He loves the bridge, Keith can tell; the ‘talk that talk baby, better walk that walk baby.’ He gets to let his voice be high and almost screeching, and Keith holds his breath for the high note but once again he nails it, having to pull the mic away from his face because his voice is blasting from the speakers. The instruments continue the melody while he wails, and they pick up the call and response again when he finally lets the note die. Keith can see opportunities for fills in the simple melody, places where he can freestyle and not detract from Lance’s singing.

Pidge didn’t write an ending so she just cuts everybody off, but everyone still whoops when they’re done. “You weren’t kidding!” Allura says. “That’s amazing, Lance you sound fantastic!”

He takes a deep bow. “’Twas nothing, milady.”

“That was about as good as you can get on a first run,” Pidge says, leaning over her master scoresheet with a saxophone still hanging from her neck. “Shiro, your part’s a little boring, I can beef that up.”

“It’s fine, it’s fun to play.” Shiro smiles from behind the drums, but he’s rhythmically massaging his right wrist, the one that’s permanently covered in black thermal sleeve. “We absolutely have to play that one, no question.”

“Let’s do _Born to Run_ one more time,” Lance says suddenly. “Let’s see how it sounds now that we’re warmed up.”

Keith raises his eyebrows at him, but Lance just gives a fleeting smile.

“Uh, okay,” Allura says. “Instrument swap?”

They switch out their instruments, and Lance intently goes through his lyric sheet again. This time when Pidge cues them in, there’s an immediate difference – they’re together, all of them, keys and sax and drums and guitar and bass. Keith plays that opening riff with Allura, watching Lance intently, seeing the way he holds the mic a little less comfortably then before.

“In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream,” he sings, pitching himself a little deeper than before. “At night we ride the mansions of glory and suicide machines…”

It’s not quite all the way yet but it’s good, it’s there, and it builds as they head into the chorus. Keith can see the moment that Lance’s confidence kicks back in – when the piano thrashes in and he sings out, “Baby this town rips the _bones_ from your back, it’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap, we gotta get out while we’re young – cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run!”

The song sounds so different in his higher voice, a lot less gravel and a lot more silk, but it’s somehow working. Lance gets into it on the second verse, just like Keith thought he would, cause that verse is all sex. (He’s listened to this song _a lot_ over the past 24 hours, he's pretty much got it memorized.) Heading back into the chorus, something starts to fall apart – Keith thinks it’s Lance at first but it’s actually the drums, and Lance is slowing his vocals down to match. Keith turns to look at Shiro, because he’s never lost tempo in all the time that they’ve been playing together, but Lance bursts out,

“I need water, I need a break.”

Keith whips back around. “Wait, what?”

Lance dramatically puts his hands on his hips. “This is a hard song, Keith, you have to give the people time for water, don’t you know lack of water is against the Geneva Convention? Everyone take five, someone get me some water!”

“You are such a _diva_ ,” Keith says, and Lance winks at him.

Pidge groans and unclips her saxophone, snatching the score out of Hunk’s hands to look over the bass part. Shiro heads into the house quicker than Keith can see him go, and the door’s barely shut behind him before Hunk says,

“Dude.”

“What?” Lance says innocently, rummaging around for bottled water.

“You’re babying him again.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dearest. Where is the water? Geneva Convention, Hunk!”

“Yeah, that’s not what the Geneva Convention is about, I hate to break it to you.”

“What are they talking about?” Keith asks Allura while they squabble.

Allura sits down on her stool, looking up at Keith with a sad smile. “Have you ever asked Shiro why he wears that sleeve?”

Keith shakes his head. It didn’t seem like any of his business.

“He was in a very bad car accident in middle school. It’s the same accident that killed his parents.” Keith’s heart stutters. “It hit him on his right side, he sustained pretty bad injuries on his arm and his lung. He made a full recovery, but there’s a lot of scar tissue that he can be a bit sensitive about, and his tendons can get very tight and sore if he plays for too long.”

_Lance was covering up for him,_ Keith realizes. _Oh God. And I called him a diva._ Oh God, Shiro's parents are dead. That's why he lives with his grandfather. Keith feels terrible but there's also the shameful little voice cheering, saying  _You're not the only one!_ Keith reminds himself that he is, in fact, an asshole.

Allura can clearly see what’s going on inside his head, because she nudges his wrist. “It’s alright, Keith. Shiro’s fine and Lance is fine. Shiro is perfectly capable of speaking out when he can’t play anymore, but Lance can be a bit overprotective.”

It’s starting to become apparent to Keith why, despite all of his bullshit and drama and attention-hogging, Lance is still someone that all of these people would die for.

The conversation in the other corner starts to get a little heated, and Keith tunes back in. “I just don’t know,” Lance is saying. “I’m not sure if it’s really winning material.”

“You’re fucking joking,” Pidge says flatly. “Did you not hear us? Was there water in your ears? We fucking crushed that song. We destroyed that song. That song is legally dead, cause of murder: Voltron.”

“Yeah but it’s so pop, we’ve never done so poppy before, is that really our style?”

Keith gets another stab of regret for his earlier jabs about Lance listening to pop music. God, he’s an absolute assweasel, isn’t he?

“Lance, I really don’t know where this is coming from, but we sounded really, really good on that song, and I think you know that so I’m not sure why you’re getting shifty right now,” Hunk says.

“Lance, do you not want to play _Sorry Not Sorry_ anymore?” Allura speaks up. “Because I agree with them, I think we sounded terrific and it’s really thanks to you.”

“That’s part of the problem,” Lance says, and then clicks his jaw shut. He’s totally closed off, arms crossed in front of his chest, shoulders hunched over, defensive and surly.

“What’s going on?” Keith asks simply.

Lance makes eye contact and huffs, straightens up. “Guys, think about who else is going to _be there_.”

It takes a minute, but eventually Allura, Pidge and Hunk all must understand what he means. Hunk sighs and says, “Buddy, come on.”

“What? Who’s going to be there?” Keith says.

Lance holds his eye for quite a while, throat working as he swallows. “So you know that band we’ve talked about, the one that beat us last year?” He finally says.

“Yeah?”

“Well, they’re going to be at Rockfest again this year, I can guarantee it. And, it’s…” He cuts his eyes over, not looking at Keith. “My ex-boyfriend is the lead singer. And, this is kind of a pointed song to sing whenever he’ll be in the audience. So.”

Ex-boyfriend.

Ex- _boyfriend._

Allura, Hunk and Pidge all start talking to Lance, phrases about ‘Don’t let him control your life’ and ‘Think about how amazing it’ll be when you beat him with his song’ and other encouraging things, but Keith doesn’t hear a word. Their words are coming into his brain and smashing headfirst into a brick wall of _oh shit oh shit oh shit._

Lance isn’t straight. Lance dates men. He doesn’t know why this is a surprise. Looking back on it, this is the least surprising thing that’s literally ever happened to Keith. The innate knowledge of female pop singers, the casual way he knows and references musical numbers and Disney movies, the way he flirts and constantly tells Hunk he’s attractive. _The comments about dick pics the very first night they met._ Lance being somewhere on the queer spectrum makes as much sense as Allura running her family mafia. It just does.

And yet, this is a fucking revelation to Keith. This is mind-blowing. Lance dates men. Lance likes men. Those comments about Allura, how many times he asked her out, all the times he flirts with the clarinet – he does that to guys too. He flits with guys, he goes on dates with guys, he kisses guys. And that means – that means – if he likes guys, if he’s sexually and romantically interested in guys – that means –

_There’s some universe in which he’s attracted to you_ , Keith’s traitorous little mind finishes, and there’s a tiny nuke going off in the deep recesses of Keith’s no-longer-so-oblivious soul.

Shiro comes back in, giving a soft smile to Lance, and informs them that Mrs. Garrett has pulled out a chocolate cake for them. Everyone scrambles inside, and Keith follows on autopilot. Everyone chalks it up to general Keith introversion and leaves him alone, for which he is beyond grateful.

Right now, inside his head is a steady stream of _oh God. Oh God. Oh God. Oh God…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back!! Nobody look at how long it's been since I last updated, let's all just pretend that I whip out chapters every three days. Mass delusions are a thing, right? Eternal apologies, my friends.
> 
> Lots of fun links for today:
> 
> [Click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZzEz0K4Ro8) for a recording of 'You Can Call Me Al' (originally by Paul Simon) for marching band. There are lots of great videos of marching bands playing it in field shows, but this way you can hear the piccolo solo the best!
> 
> [Click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cjGGrcDlcLs) for Bruce Springsteen playing 'Born to Run' live at the Capitol Theater in Passaic, NJ in 78 (the concert Keith's dad went to).
> 
> And [click here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HHooYL1n4ZY) for Grambling State University crushing a full band arrangement of 'Sorry Not Sorry'. The tuba part is what I based mine off of; their entire brass line is just sooooo badass.
> 
> Next chapter has lots of Lotor backstory, so stay tuned! Thanks so much for reading!! 
> 
> Chapter Title from 'Secret Garden' by Bruce Springsteen


	8. This Gun's For Hire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags have been updated; please read and stay safe, lovies!

The red lion is really kinda cute.

Keith tips his head back, looking up at the gigantic lion statue above him. According to the other members of Voltron, each of the five lion statues in the middle of the school has a different personality. Keith thought it was bullshit (like everything else regarding this weird lion cult), but he has to admit that the red lion is a bit sassy. It’s a little snarky, meaner than the others. He can see it on the face markings and the little bit of fang. How it’s smaller than a lot of the others but takes up just as much space.

“Oh fuck,” he says out loud, making Lance, Hunk and Pidge turn to look at him, “I’m anthropomorphizing one of the fucking lions.”

Lance grins like the Grinch, an absolutely evil smirk. “You like a lion. Admit it, bitch, you’ve got a favorite. Which one is it, is it Blue? Isn’t she the prettiest girl you’ve ever seen?”

“You can’t have Green,” Pidge says. “You can’t. I’ll fight you for Green.”

“It’s none of your punkass lions, it’s the red one.”

“Ooh, I can see it,” Hunk replies. “Red’s always been a bit of a loner.”

“Thanks,” Keith says, ignoring the stab of sadness. Is that still how they see him? Is that how they’ll always see him? They’re all lounging together in the early morning softness, in their usual hangout spot underneath the lions before they all traipse over to the band room. Lance sips a coffee and compares memes with Pidge while Hunk delicately eats a bagel. It’s where Keith comes every single morning; is he always going to be the outsider in this group no matter how many hours he puts in?

“No, but that’s a good question,” Lance says, flicking up his blue eyes to the red lion. “Is the red lion really the loner, or is it – “

“She,” Pidge interjects.

“Or is _she_ actually just kind of a drama queen? I’m getting a little Bianca Del Rio vibe from her, you know what I mean?”

“That’s the gayest thing you’ve ever said,” Hunk points out.

“No it’s not, don’t even lie. No, but like when they were making the lions, did the great Lion Gods decide to match the lions to us, or do we match the lions? Like, what’s the truth here – “

“Don’t ask about the lions,” the other three say in fierce unison, and Lance groans.

“There’s literally only one fucking rule,” Keith reminds him.

“But it doesn’t make any sense – “

“Lance, curiosity killed the lion, listen to Keith and shut the fuck up,” Pidge says, flicking her hair back and glaring at him.

“You’re all drinking the Kool-Aid!”

“ _You_ _fed me_ the Kool-Aid!” Keith says, unable to stop a grin. Is this pathetic, that he’s so happy to remind someone of their own rules? Does that make him not an outsider? Whatever, watching Lance get flustered is always cute.

“I know, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still chafe at authority, I mean, why am I not allowed to ask about why the fuck they’re lions – “

“Hello, Lance.”

Keith, looking directly at Lance, sees the change on his friend’s face in high-definition; all of the light goes out from his eyes, his smile drops instantly, his jaw tightens and his fists clench. All conversation stops, and Keith watches baffled as Lance turns to face the speaker.

The student in front of them is tall, blonde and fucking gorgeous. Keith’s having a hard time believing that he goes to their school; he could easily pass for college-age. Fitted jeans and an expensive-looking leather bookbag lead up to broad shoulders, a cut jaw and incredibly long blonde hair tied back in a man-bun. His shark smile locks in on Lance and Keith feels a shiver all the way down to his toes.

“Lotor,” Lance replies, voice curter than Keith has ever heard it.

_It’s him,_ Keith realizes. _The ex-boyfriend._

Lotor nods to Pidge and Hunk, who do not return the gesture. “How’s marching band season going?” He asks.

“Fine,” Lance says. “How’s orchestra?”

“Wonderful, we’re preparing for all-state in the spring.”

“Like you do every spring,” Pidge cuts in, knife-sharp. “What do you want?”

“I was saying hello,” Lotor says, raising a perfect eyebrow. “Do we not do that anymore? Has civility completely fled from the Marching Lions?”

“That’s rich,” Hunk says, standing up. “That’s real rich, coming from you. ‘Civility’, you wouldn’t know civility if it bit you in – “

“Just go, Lotor,” Lance says. His shoulders have slumped, staring up at Lotor with exhaustion and defiance.

In the thick of the tension, Lotor smiles again and lifts up one hand, wiggling his fingers in a gesture that’s as insulting as it is provocative. He walks on, back into the school. As soon as he’s gone, Hunk turns back to Lance.

“Lance, buddy, are you okay – “

“I’m fine, tell Coran I’ll be a bit late for practice.”

And then Lance is gone too, striding off past them towards his locker, clutching his backpack to his chest and leaving Keith stunned and shaking in his wake. He feels like he’s watching a raw nerve walk away. In that two minute conversation, that man took a potato peeler to Lance and Keith could murder him for it.

He makes eye contact with Hunk and Pidge, all three of them stone-faced.

_Oh, darling,_ Keith thinks.

 

* * *

 

 

Clocks in high schools exist in an alternate dimension. Keith’s not sure if they’ve proved the existence of alternate dimensions yet, but when they do, the very first scrap of proof they’re going to find will be in high schools. He’s been watching this clock for at least twelve hours and it’s still not even 3 o’clock yet. It’s bullshit, is what it is.

The kid next to him glares, and Keith glares back. He’s been bouncing his foot steadily in every class he’s been in, and any other day he’d think he was the most annoying kid in this school. But Lance wasn’t at lunch, and he hasn’t been answering the group chat, and Keith’s losing his fucking mind.

As soon as the bell rings, Keith grabs his bag and all but runs out. The sunlight hits his face as he hustles out to the band room, his boots pounding against the bricks. A quick glance at his phone tells him Pidge and Hunk are en route, and they too have heard nothing from Lance since this morning. Keith walks even faster, fingers tight against his backpack straps, so worried he’s close to praying. He's done a valiant job of completely ignoring his little mini-revelation the other night at Voltron practice (because just because he realizes something doesn't mean he has to do _acknowledge_ his realization), but this isn't about his _feelings_ or whatever, this is about Lance as a _friend_ who is in _danger_.

He sees Hunk’s yellow car before anything else, and that indicates all of Voltron is already there. He barely stops himself from running over, because it’s not like Lance is fucking _dying_ , but he does power-walk. Hunk turns around to see him first, and Keith can’t interpret the look on his face, until he finally comes close enough to see Lance, who is –

Smiling. Laughing. Reaching out to teasingly ruffle Shiro’s hair and getting batted away in response.

Keith slows to a stop.

“Hey, cowboy,” Lance says. “Ready for practice? Actually, the better question is ‘ready to eat’ because my mom is going to make so many empanadas we’re going to roll you all home.”

“Uh.”

Lance rolls his eyes and starts chattering at Allura. Keith looks at Hunk and Pidge: Hunk’s got a weird grimace on his face, and Pidge’s face is stormy underneath her green snapback.

Coping mechanism. Got it.

They all split up to their various vehicles to grab instruments and meet up at Lance’s house, and Keith thanks God that Past Keith had the apparent foresight to park right next to Lance. He runs up right beside him, because fuck subtle at this point, and says as soon as they’re out of earshot,

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Hunky-dory!”

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith says, and Lance finally turns to look at him.

“I’m fine,” he says, softer. “Seriously.”

“Why weren’t you at lunch?”

“Ever heard of personal time?”

“Not from you,” Keith replies, and it garners a snort.

“Okay, that’s a little fair,” Lance says. “Honestly, it’s cool. I’m made of tougher stuff than that. Lotor being a little bitch isn’t anything new.”

“What happened?” Keith says, words spilling out of him – he didn’t mean to ask that now but he couldn’t help it, it’s been the only thing on him mind since Lance first said ‘ex-boyfriend’. He woke up in the middle of the night once because something hit his window and spent the next hour going over increasingly self-torturing images of what Lance’s potential ex-boyfriend could look like. (Lotor is _even worse_ than the hottest images his sad little mind could conjure.)

Lance unlocks the door of his car, a quiet beep. Students are starting to mill out to the parking lot, laughing and ambling, disrupting their little bubble. Lance leans his hip against the car, lets his backpack slide down his arm.

“Can I tell you later?” He says, looking Keith in the eyes. “I’m feeling good right now and I don’t want to go over it and…can you just, like, trust that I’m okay right now?”

Keith feels like he got slapped in the face, for no good reason. But, it’s also the most honest Lance has ever been with him.

“Yeah, of course. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about.” Lance flashes him a smile, throws his bag in the car. “Just get pumped for Voltron practice. Roar, you know?”

Without waiting for a response, Lance swings himself into the front seat. Keith takes the dismissal for what it was and heads back to his motorcycle, shoulders up around his ears.

Guess he’ll keep waiting.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mom! The boys are back in town!” Lance bellows when they’re through the door. “Also, Mona pooped in the bushes again!”

“I knew it! I could tell that her litterbox was looking a little empty. One second, _mijo_.”

“Make yourself at home, guys,” Lance calls, walking easily into the house. Keith hangs back as everyone piles in, blinking around at the house.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t desperately curious to finally have practice at Lance’s house. He was expecting the same brand of chaotic hurricane that seems to be Lance’s MO, just like he expected to be bombarded with siblings as soon as he stepped through the door. However, this house looks just like any other house he’s been in – it’s a bit bigger, and the sheer amount of coats and shoes and toys speaks to a larger family than his, but everything is put away in a set place, and the only other living soul is a fat blue-gray cat winding its way around Lance’s legs.

“Miss Mona Lisa, did you escape and go poopoo on Mr. Carter’s lawn again?” Lance scoops her up in his arms, kissing the top of her fluffy hair and cooing. “You know better, yes you do, you know better.”

“Aww, hi girl,” Allura leans in, reaching out a hand. Mona hisses at her briefly, but Lance shushes her in inaudible Spanish and Mona begrudgingly allows Allura to pet her. Keith stifles a smile.

“Lance, stop encouraging that satanic creature, she’s got it out for me.” A tall woman instantly recognizable as Lance’s mother walks into the room, wearing blue jeans and a white shirt and a blinding smile, tumbleweed brown hair swept back into a clip. She beams at the group. “Ah, the return of Voltron! Must be a new school year for you to grace my home.”

Hunk can’t stand it anymore and rushes forward for a hug. Mrs. McClain laughs and hugs him back, kissing his cheek, and then proceeds to similarly greet the rest of the band. Keith watches and waits his turn, bittersweet feelings curling up in the pit of his stomach.

“You must be Keith,” Mrs. McClain says, like all the other parents he’s met. “I’ve heard so much about you,” which is not like all the other parents he’s met.

“ _Mom_ ,” Lance whines before switching to Spanish. Keith’s never really heard Lance speak Spanish before, but he thinks about it sometimes when he’s in his Intro to Spanish and Lance is in his AP Spanish Literature, thinks about the way the vowels and rolling cadences sound when shaped by his teacher’s mouth and not his own clumsy tongue, wonders if maybe he sucked really badly if he could ever get the courage to ask Lance for tutoring help.

Now Keith knows that’s never going to happen, because Lance speaking Spanish is even _hotter_ than his fantasies. It shouldn’t be possible, and yet it is.

Lance’s Spanish is way too fast and way too accented for Keith to have a prayer at understanding it, but he thinks it must be something funny if the way Mrs. McClain laughs is any indication. She responds in breezy Spanish, something that makes Lance blush, and then before anyone can figure out what happened switches back to English and says, “You know the drill, empanadas are ready to go so just come up when you get hungry! And be nice to your sisters, okay?”

“Ugh, okay.” Lance waves goodbye to his mom and herds everyone out a side door into the garage. It’s empty of cars but just as cluttered as the video; Keith figures this is the one place that Mrs. McClain will permit mess. Team Voltron chatters amiably as they set up instruments, amps and stands; sunshine billows in from the open garage door, lighting up the room until Lance regrettably has to close it.

“Seriously, the neighbors will be on us like white on rice if we leave that open,” he says. “Okay, so our first order of business is narrowing down a pop-punk song to play at Rockfest, because us playing a different one every day is getting ridiculous.”

Keith snorts a laugh.

“I’m serious! We start every Voltron practice with some early 2000s angst, so we should just throw in the towel and pick which one we’re actually gonna go with.”

“I think we were meant to play _What’s My Age Again?_ ” Hunk speaks up. “We sound so good on that one!”

“I’m actually pretty partial to _The Anthem_ ,” Shiro says. “I like the vibe the best.”

“Do whatever you want for those, Allura and I aren’t going to play on it so you four decide,” Pidge says.

“What, don’t say that!”

“No Lance, it’s fine, we’ll take a break in between songs. There’s no point in us being there if we’re not going to contribute, it’s not a big deal,” Allura says.

Keith, not really having a solid opinion yet, turns around to fiddle with the dials of his amp and catches a glimpse of brown hair. He shakes his head, willing the apparition away, and then looks again. In the crack between the door, two little brown eyes are stacked one on top of each other, watching the proceedings with journalistic curiosity.

Keith gives a hesitant wave, it prompts a cascade of shushes and giggles.

“ – can try the Good Charlotte but I’m not sure about my vocals, Keith, what’s your call?”

“Huh?”

“What song do you want to try, Jesus, it’s like the kid forgets we’re here to play music – what are you looking at?”

“I think we have company,” Keith says, and Lance looks to the door and suppresses a smile.

“Make yourselves useful, come in,” he yells.

The whispers confer one last time, and then the door finally opens. Two girls come hesitantly inside; one has brown hair in two long braids, and the other has darker hair and a gap-toothed smile. Keith is shit at guessing kid’s ages, but he’d guess the one in braids is at the long division stage and the little one looks like she plays with dolls and terrorizes boys.

“Help us pick a song,” Lance says, beckoning them over. “Everyone knows Celia and Charo,” he says casually, flinging a hand over them so Keith doesn’t know who’s who.

“Hi Allura!” The older one squeals, and they both run over to Allura, who bends down and gives them large, dramatic kisses.

“My goodness, you were the most beautiful girls in the world the last time I saw you and you’ve become even more beautiful-er! How is that possible? What is your witchcraft?”

The girls giggle, and Allura’s eyes sparkle. Keith has to stop his own smile. “We look like a piano,” the little one says, and lifts up her own black hair against Allura’s white braid.

“How fitting, I play the piano! Here, go for it,” and then Allura brings them around and lets them bang out discordant chords on her keyboard.

“Allura,” Lance whines, “they already make terrible noises on the trumpet, can’t we – “

“Shut up, Lance.”

And that’s the end of the discussion.

Celia and Charo play every instrument in the room (the little one’s pretty solid at bass), and after ten minutes Lance is about ready to spit fire. He starts hissing in Spanish, and the older one answers so flippantly that Pidge grins from the multilingual sass.

“If you don’t sit down and let us practice,” Lance says, in crisp English, “I will tell Mom that it was you who spilled blue nail polish on the carpet and not Mona like you’ve been saying for two years.”

The older one – Celia, Keith thinks – gasps dramatically, and Lance smirks in victory.

“ _Siéntate_ ,” he orders, and they sulk over to the corner, big lips pouted out as they plop down on old boxes. Keith was pretty annoyed too but for a split second he considers calling them back and letting them fuck around on his guitar for another ten minutes, just to get that sad look off her face. Is this what having kids is like, constantly getting guilted into shit?

“Let’s run through _The Anthem_ ,” Lance says. “Keith, start us off.”

Keith flicks his pedals and starts in on the guitar intro. The first time someone suggested this song he wasn’t too impressed, but it’s growing on him – the raw irreverence of it, the aggression, how it’s weirdly uplifting even as it rails against the system. He has to pull double guitar duty but it’s worth it to fucking rock out, Hunk and Shiro thrashing on their instruments as Lance dances around and shrieks into the mic.

“Don’t wanna be just like you – what I’m saying is, this is the anthem, throw all your hands up!” He sings, and Allura and Pidge obligingly raise their hands. He grins and goes to sing the next verse in front of Hunk, dragging a fake microphone around with him. Keith also gets a guitar solo, which is pretty awesome – he doesn’t have it down yet, not by a long shot, but another week or two of solo practice in his room and he’ll have it in the bag.

Lance cuts them off before they get to the final chorus, and his chest is heaving in the newly quiet garage. “Okay, so that does sound pretty good,” he says, coughing quickly. “I’m so in love with those drums, Shiro, you’re kicking ass on those things. Maybe we could – I don’t know, I feel like we need to – “

“Why do you only play boring music?” Celia says. Lance turns to her in disbelief to see her looking back with raised eyebrows.

“ _¿Qué?_ ” He sputters.

“You should play more fun music, that was boring!” Charo nods in solemn agreement.

“How the hell was that boring? That’s the voice of a generation, the battle cry for creative freedom! It’s literally called the _Anthem!_ ”

“I wanna dance,” Charo says, and Celia darts forward and grabs Lance’s phone out of his pocket before he can blink.

“You little – “

Everyone else in Voltron starts laughing as Lance continuously gets outsmarted by a nine-year-old, Celia darting around him easily while flicking through the phone. She hides behind Hunk at one point, who physically blocks Lance out of the way. “Dude,” he whines, and Hunk shrugs and grins. Celia must find something she likes, because soft tinny music plays from Lance’s phone, and with clumsy kid fingers she turns the volume all the way up.

“This is good music, you should play this,” she informs them.

“This is the Cha Cha Slide, this is so _old_ ,” Lance says. Charo is already up and dancing though. Keith, as is tradition, has never even heard of this song, much less heard it played.

Pidge walks over and takes the phone, flicking a few buttons. The music suddenly jumps in volume, loud and full, and it takes Keith a second to locate the dusty speakers sitting on a shelf.

“If we’re going to play music let’s not use Lance’s shitty speakers, I can’t live with that.”

“ _Pidge_ ,” Lance groans, as the girls gasp at the expletive. “Seriously?”

“I grew up with Matt, I knew shit by the time I was in kindergarten.”

“Pidge!” Shiro, Allura and Lance all yell, and she glares at them.

Charo runs over and grabs the phone, starts moving through it with her little tongue pressed out.

“Whatcha lookin’ for, kid?” Lance leans down.

She presses the phone into his chest and mumbles something. Lance smiles, rubs the top of her head and keeps his hand there, flicking easily through the phone with his other hand. Keith’s infatuated little heart crumbles in his chest.

The song switches over. “New Cupid!” Somebody sings over a hip-hop beat, and all of Voltron gasps.

“Hell yeah,” Hunk says, literally taking his bass off and running to the center. “Great taste, Charo.”

Pidge and Allura follow shortly, and the whole group forms a line and starts doing a unified line dance; they shuffle to the right, shuffle to the left, kick out and then turn around. Keith is baffled. He kinda thought he’d left line dancing behind in Texas?

“I haven’t done the Cupid Shuffle since middle school,” Pidge cheers, kicking out her orange Vans before she turns around. Allura bumps her hips against Celia, making her giggle in delight.

Keith’s having a hard time not watching Lance’s hips as he dances. Lance is wearing these awful black skinny jeans, and by ‘awful’ Keith means that they must be made with some Spandex or something because they look painted on, and every time Lance turns around his baseball tee rides up and shows the cut of his hips, and Keith has to bite his lips so hard he’s surprised he doesn’t draw blood. If he gets a boner from this that’s it, he’s running away to Alaska and changing his name and living a meager existence with fish and walruses and shit for the rest of his life.

“Keith, Shiro, let’s go,” Lance says, interrupting Keith’s worst nightmare with his other worst nightmare. “You gotta dance.”

“I don’t know how,” Keith says desperately.

“The instructions are literally in the song, it’s super easy, I promise.” Lance breaks the line and runs over, and those bright blue eyes are so happy. Behind him, Shiro pushes the garage door up and great, that’s even fucking worse, now people on the street are going to see him suck at dancing.

“Don’t worry, I’m really bad at dancing too,” Shiro says, patient and gentle with his easy smile, calming Keith’s stuttering heart. Combine that with Lance’s warm reaching hands that gently wrap around Keith’s wrist and send sparks running up his arm, and Keith finds himself drawn slowly into the line.

The whole line has to shuffle, because they’re too wide to go across the garage, and Hunk scoots out until he’s in the driveway, laughing and dancing the whole time. Lance deposits Keith right next to him and says,

“Alright, you’re at the perfect spot, listen to the dulcet tones of Cupid and let him lure you into the magnificent Cupid Shuffle.”

Keith listens – “To the right, to the right, to the right, to the right, to the left, to the left, to the left, to the left, now kick, now kick – “ He awkwardly moves his feet, Lance and Shiro bumping into him and forcing him over, and barely picks his feet up an inch at the kicking part. He turns in the wrong direction on the final line, and still the whole place cheers when they start the next line.

“You did great, Keith!” Celia cheers, and when she had time to learn Keith’s name he has no idea, but God, she’s cute. He smiles at her and dances to the right.

Two more rotations and Lance is saying, “Shit, you’re like really good at this!”

“I’m from Texas,” Keith says distractedly. It’s really a fun drum part, and the melody’s pretty cool too, lots of moving up and down the scale. Musically, it’s not a bad song. “I did this in middle school.”

“No!” Allura screams, and everyone starts whooping. “You line-danced in middle school?”

“What, did you not?”

“Christ, no! Did you wear a cowboy hat?”

“Sometimes,” he replies, and they all continue shrieking.

“Howdy, pardner,” Allura says in a terrible Southern accent, putting a hand on her hip and tipping an imaginary cowboy hat on the next kicks. Keith can’t help but laugh.

“No, that’s atrocious, that’s not what it sounds like.”

“Do it!” Charo says.

“Listen, he ain’t nothing special, he’s all hat and no cattle,” Keith drawls, and judging by the yells you’d think Keith just dunked at the NBA finals.

“Shut up! Holy shit, that’s the best thing I’ve ever heard!” Pidge says, and no one reprimands her for cussing. They’re still dancing, Keith realizes belatedly, all shuffling and kicking and turning while they talk, everyone missing steps as they go. “Do another!”

Keith scrambles his brain for more Texas slang and decides to go all in. “Y’all wouldn’t believe how stupid the drummers are at Garrison High. Shiro’s their captain and just making them stay on beat he’s busy as a one-legged man at an ass-kicking contest.”

That, finally, is what stops the Cupid Shuffle, as everyone is too busy laughing to continue dancing. Shiro physically leans onto a shelf, laughing this deep, belly laugh Keith’s never heard from him. Lance is wheezing. The girls don’t really get it but he said ‘ass’ so that’s enough to keep them giggling.

“Keith Kogane,” Hunk says, rubbing at his eyes, “you are a treasure.”

Keith grins, big and proud, sunshine from the open garage door warming his body.

When he gets home that night – as practice, predictably, falls apart after the dancing and nothing else gets done – he’s still got the Cupid Shuffle stuck in his head, and he finds himself doing little kicks and turns as he showers. He falls into bed, humming the melody, and gets an idea. He pulls his computer over and opens up the search bar.

The next morning at band practice, Keith gets there early and heads to Coran’s office.

They don’t spend a whole lot of time in Coran’s office; that’s mostly for Allura, when she hangs out with him before or after school, doing her AP homework and giving him shit. The little office, tucked into the band room, is filled with records, concert posters, a mellophone mounted on the wall. It’s all very organized and clean, because Coran’s crazy but he’s very tidy, and he turns away from his computer and smiles at Keith when he walks in.

“Hello Keith, how are you today?”

“Good, thanks. Are you watching cat videos on YouTube?”

“Of course! It’s why the internet was invented!” Behind him, a tiny kitten sneezes, and Keith’s lips twitch up. “What brings you to my noble office on this fine morning?”

“Uh, well, I heard this song the other day – actually, it was last night, I don’t know why I said the other day – and I was thinking, it’s got a good melody. I mean it’s not life-changing or anything, but I was thinking, maybe it wouldn’t sound half-bad – “ Face flaming red, Keith finally thrusts the paper in his hands at Coran.

Coran looks down and raises his eyebrows. “You bought sheet music?”

“No, I didn’t buy it. It was on YouTube, so it was easy enough to pull the image for the full score.” He doesn’t know if it’s cool to tell a teacher that you’re guilty of copyright infringement, but Coran’s totally unfazed, humming the song to himself as he looks through it.

“I’ve heard this before,” he says. “It’s on the radio, that catchy song. Doesn’t it have a dance or something to it?”

Keith smiles. “Yeah, it does.”

Coran finally looks up at him. “And this was your idea?”

Keith nods, not sure what Coran means by that. A proud smile twitches up under his moustache, and in one move he stands up and walks back out into the main band room.

“If I could have everyone’s attention,” he yells to the rowdy band room, Keith trailing behind him. “Shiro, if you would come down here and start making copies for everyone – we’ve got some new stand music today!”

Shiro climbs down and so does Pidge, who plucks the score out of Coran’s hands and looks over it with her big owl eyes. She looks up at Keith in surprise.

“This is pretty good,” she says, with no small amount of disbelief. “You went and got this?”

“Everyone can stop acting so surprised,” Keith bemoans, as Shiro uses his taller size to snatch the score from Pidge and walk over to the copier.

“What’s going on?” Lance yells down. “What’s happening?”

“Patience is a virtue, Lance,” Coran calls back.

The mutterings fill as Shiro finishes making copies and painstakingly passes them out, Keith twitching in his place besides Coran. If everyone thinks this is stupid he doesn’t think he’ll ever recover from the humiliation, he will literally burst into flames from mortification is this idea doesn’t pay off. Lance finally gets his score, and one look at the title has his face bursting with joy.

“Alright, I know it’s a full score, but we all can follow along just fine. You all can thank Keith for this idea!” Keith ducks his head and thanks God that they’re not clapping this time. “Back to your seat, Keith, horns up! We’ve got to run this through!”

Keith shoots him a smile and climbs back up the stairs, heading for Lance’s smiling face. “ _Dude_ ,” Lance says appreciatively, and Keith’s stupid heart skips a beat.

“With me, everyone!” Coran raises his hands. “'Cupid Shuffle' in one, two, three, four – “

 

* * *

 

 

Late September in California sweeps in like a snowy owl, brushing away the heat and stickiness that Keith assumed would never go away. For the first time he’s actually a little happy for his thick polyester marching uniform that was unbearably sweaty for the first month. Though he is still sweating for a different reason as they sit in the stands, fingers clenched on his trumpet and leg jittering up and down.

“Dude,” Pidge says from below him, “I can taste your anxiety from here. Calm down.”

“Who fed the gremlin after midnight?” Keith shoots back, a laugh rippling through the Marching Lions. Pidge’s Shako feather flutters as she turns around to flip him an unimpressed middle finger.

“Keith, buddy, focus on the horror that is the score of this game,” Lance says. “Look at this. The running back has tripped on air twice now. There are no defenders in a mile of him and he still falls. It’s honestly incredible.”

Keith can barely even muster a smile, he’s too nervous. His eyes flick over to where his dad is at his usual seat, up against the fence which divides the sections of stands. He watches the game, but he’s not subtle about looking over to watch Keith and the rest of the band. One more person to watch him fail. He never should have suggested this song, what extroverted demon possessed him and convinced him it would be a good idea to do something ‘new’? He bet it was a chatty white bitch named Lucy Kate. Sounds like a demon name.

The whistle sounds for a timeout, and immediately Coran is up. “Number 23, guys! Cupid Shuffle!”

Holy shit, Keith could puke. He stands up and actually gets light-headed or a second, blinking against the spots in his vision. He’s literally never been this nervous before. Probably because this is the entire band playing this song, all 80 people who will be disappointed if this song that he suggested turns out to be a fuckup. Rolo and Nyma raise their hands and Keith raises his horn, fingers sweating in his gloves, _Fucking Keith, they’ll say, making us play this stupid song, what was he even doing suggesting songs, he’s still a fucking newbie, that idiot –_

“One, two, three, four!”

Keith misses his first note but nobody else does, and it pops in the night air. The drums carry the first part, and Keith flicks his eyes over to see his dad looking interestingly at the band playing new music. Then the tenor saxes and trombones come in on the melody, nice and sassy, Pidge and Hunk both back on their original instruments. When the trumpets come in Keith smiles, because the back-and-forth is amazing. They trade off, saxes and trombones, piccolos and trumpets, the instrumentation was what drew him to this arrangement in particular, the way the whole band got to answer each other like a rapid-fire conversation at dinner.

“Look,” Lance says, nudging him before they play. Keith looks down at the field and holy shit, the cheerleaders are dancing the Cupid Shuffle, all lined up and laughing and having a great time. The crowd’s clapping, people are cheering – _and he did that._

“I’m gonna go dance, wanna come?” Lance says, and what?

“Uh, no,” Keith says without thinking.

Lance rolls his eyes but drops his trumpet and runs down the stands, nearly braining himself on the railing before he makes it to the field. Keith didn’t even know he knew the cheerleaders, but it’s a struggle to focus on playing his horn when they’re all laughing and cheering at Lance, who effortlessly joins in the line. He looks so ridiculous dancing in his full uniform, Shako feather wiggling all over the place, and his face is so carefree when he kicks his legs out – how was this the boy who two days ago was stripped bare by one look from one guy?

The song doesn’t end with a full rotation, so Lance and the cheerleaders just flail around with some dramatic poses until the song cuts off. The crowd cheers extra-loud, and Lance links his arms with the cheerleaders and they do a dramatic bow, red-faced and beaming. Lance makes his way back to the stands, receiving high-fives from Shiro and Coran. When he reaches Keith, all Keith can do is roll his eyes.

“Thanks for leaving me alone with the freshmen.”

“Hey!” A freshman protests, and Keith gives an apologetic grimace.

“Please, you were fine,” Lance says easily, plopping back down. “Come on, where’s my cocky cowboy? Where’s ‘I’ll prove it’? This is your song, you owned it.”

Keith lets himself smile. Behind him, Hunk beams, a smile reserved just for him. Keith thinks it looks like pride.

He turns his face towards the lights, all the anxiety washed away in the turf.

After the field show, Keith escapes for his usual bathroom decompression session, with a side quest to get a chili dog because he’s _starving_. While waiting in line he gets a text from his dad: _Was that the song you were telling me about?_

_Yeah,_ he replies.

_You have really good taste; the band sounded amazing and the crowd was totally into it._

You could fry an egg with how hot Keith’s face is right now. _Thanks Dad._

He pauses for a moment, and then in a rush types out, _I’m really proud to be in this band._

Is that too sappy? Is that giving anything away? Who says that for _any_ reason (other than how good it felt to say?)

_Looks like they’re proud to have you too,_ his dad replies.

Keith shoves his phone in his pocket and doesn’t reply, because if there’s one thing he’s not going to do tonight it’s tear up in the hot dog line.

When he heads back up to the band section, the seating arrangement’s been shifted a bit; Pidge and Lance are sitting down in the second row with Shay and Allura, their instruments both abandoned. Keith doesn’t even think, just walks over and Lance budges up to make room.

“The Fighting Lions are ten new kinds of shitty this year,” Pidge observes. “I didn’t think they could get any worse than last year, but I’m glad to know that all realities are possible in this universe.”

“I feel bad for them,” Shay says, leaning forward on her knee.

“I admit it doesn’t look like a banner year for us,” Coran says. He’s leaning up against his stand, slurping something pink and sugary. “But let’s not give up hope yet, they could pull it off!”

Instead of replying, Pidge gestures to the scoreboard, which currently reads 41-0.

“The numbers are quite bad, yes, but miracles do happen!”

“To the Garrison Fighting Lions? The miracle is that the principal hasn’t been arrested for illegal lion fetishization!” Lance says.

“Don’t talk about the lions!” At least ten people yell, which makes Lance mutter, “That wasn’t even really about the lions, the _fuck_.”

“Face it, Coran,” Pidge says, leaning back against her elbows, “your optimism is adorable but misplaced. These guys couldn’t win a game if they were threatened with a lifetime of sexual encounters with cactuses.”

“You confident in that?” Allura pipes up.

“You aren’t?”

“Make it interesting,” Allura says, looking up innocently through her lashes. “Bet on it.”

Pidge cocks an eyebrow behind her glasses. “What’d you have in mind?”

“Jesus Christ,” Shiro mutters.

“If the Fighting Lions win a game this year,” Coran says, “you must dance the Cupid Shuffle at a game - ”

“Easy.”

“While playing your saxophone,” he finishes.

The band oohs. Pidge hums. “And if they end the season winless, as they have for the past three seasons?”

“Play his mellophone with us?” Shay suggests.

“Unfortunately he does that when he’s drunk, not too much of an incentive,” Allura says. “Hmm…wear a shirt with Pidge’s blown-up face around school?”

“My face is gorgeous, that’s not humiliating enough,” Pidge says. “What about, he has to juggle while eating gouda – “

“If the Fighting Lions do not win a game all year,” Coran says suddenly, “I will tell you about the existence, or lack thereof, of my criminal record. Including all possible connections with the mafia.”

Hunk gasps, softly and dramatically, from far behind them.

“You’re willing to share that information?” Pidge says, her eyes narrowed, trying to call his bluff.

Coran doesn’t budge. “Yes, I am,” he says, smirking a little under his moustache. “I shall give you the information you desire, if the Fighting Lions end the season winless.”

Lance is leaned forward so far Keith is worried he’s going to tip over.

Pidge holds out for another minute, and then stands up and holds out her hand. “Deal.”

She and Coran shake, and the band whoops.

“I don’t know which one I want more,” Lance hisses to Keith. “Do I want to know about Coran and the mafia, or do I want Pidge to humiliate herself?”

“Coran might never have been in the mafia,” Keith whispers back. “Pidge dancing is a guarantee.”

The Lions fumble an easy pass, and Pidge starts whooping. “Atta boys, way to suck!”

“Go Lions!” Hunk screams. “I believe in you!”

“Fuck you, Hunk!”

“ _Pidge_!” Coran shrieks.

“Can’t hold me down, Coran!”

“Go back to your seat, you evil midget! Number nine, Hey Baby, let’s go!”

Keith sways through the whole song.

 

* * *

 

 

**Lance** : Yo you gotta help me out with this physics project

**Lance** : Like I am physically dying. I am one breath away from expiration

**Lance** : I can’t come up with a damn thing and mrs. Cortez will END MEEEEEE

**Keith** : what are you talking about

**Keith** : the physics project was postponed until next month

**Lance** : WHAT??????????

**Keith** : yeah, she told us last week in class, she doesn’t think we’re ready yet and there’s too many other things going on so she’s letting us take another month to do it

**Lance** : Where tf was i????

**Keith** : you were looking at memes with hunk

**Keith** : you spent that entire class laughing about something spongebob did

**Lance** : Yeah, that sounds about right

**Lance** : Spongebob is always the Meme King

**Lance** : Shit dude that just made my entire night, thank you so much, I was about to lose my SHEIT

**Keith** : no problem

**Keith** : you’re feeling better?

**Lance** : Was I sick??

**Keith** : no

**Keith** : nvm

**Lance** : ???

**Lance** : Oh wait youre talking about Lotor

**Lance** : Yeah dude I’m fine

**Lance** : I just hadn’t seen him in a while, so he kinda freaked me out you know

**Lance** : Like, I need to emotionally prepare myself to interact with his bitch ass

**Keith** : I actually don’t know but that sounds terrible

**Keith** : I’m sorry you have to go through that

**Lance** : I mean I always knew I was going to have to see him again

**Lance** : He kicked our ass at rockfest last year, that was shitty. Had a little mini breakdown in the bathroom with hunk afterwards

**Keith** : fuck dude, that’s horrible

**Lance** : *shrug emoji* we got through it. He was like emotionally abusive and stuff so honestly a mini freakout was not a bad reaction, it was a lot worse in the beginning

**Keith** : what the fuck??

**Keith** : are you serious??

**Lance** : Please don’t freak out dude we’re fine

**Lance** : It was a year ago

**Keith** : trust me I am freaking out

**Lance** : Let me back up, you’re getting this in bits and pieces and if you’re going to know you should know the whole thing

**Keith** : ok

**Lance** : We dated for pretty much all of freshman year. I met him at some new student welcome to the performing arts center, since he’s in the orchestra

**Lance** : And middle school wasn’t exactly a great year in terms of getting anyone to look twice at me, and here was this really hot older guy who was paying attention to me and telling me I was pretty and interesting and he wanted to spend time with me and kiss me and stuff

**Lance** : I mean, you’ve seen him, he’s attractive no matter which way you swing

**Lance** : And it was great for a bit, you know, had a lot of fun and went on cute movie dates and shit but he got pretty intense really quick

**Lance** : Like my parents didn’t like him as much as I hoped they would and suddenly he was telling me that they didn’t care about my happiness like he did. After like a month he convinced me to tell them we broke up and then kept seeing him in secret so he never had to come over, I just went over to his all the time

**Lance** : Hunk’s my best bro and he started getting freaked out and told me this wasn’t normal and Lotor was all ‘he doesn’t want you to be happy, I’m the only one who makes you happy, he wants you to die alone and unloved and I’m the only one who can take care of that for you’

**Lance** : And he had me fucking cut off contact with hunk. Didn’t text him and stopped returning his calls and avoided him and he sat alone at lunch while I sat with lotor’s fucking asshole cunt friends and

**Lance** :

**Lance** :

**Keith** : lance?? Are you okay?

**Keith** : Lance you’re freaking me out you gotta respond buddy

**Lance** : sorry sorry I’m fine

**Lance** : just hate talking about that part

**Lance** : I feel so fucking bad about that whoel phase

**Keith** : hunk would never ever hold that against you

**Lance** : No I know, and he doesn’t

**Lance** : We’ve totally talked it out, it just isn’t fun to talk about that

**Lance** : The whole thing isn’t fun to talk about and I’ve had to talk about it so much. My parents had me go to a therapist last year once they found out about it

**Lance** : I know it was helpful but it was terrible

**Keith** : *frowny face* sounds like it

**Lance** : Wow I didn’t know you knew what emojis were

**Keith** : shut up

**Lance** : *crying-laughing face*

**Lance** : Anyway that’s kind of the rest of the story

**Lance** : I didn’t really snap out of it until almost the end of the year

**Lance** : Like it really did start to feel pretty creepy, the way he’d talk to me and he was always pushing me to go further with sex stuff than I wanted to go and I missed hunk and wanted to go back to my life before then

**Lance** : So I broke up with him over text right before my family was going to go to Niagara falls for vacation cause I was scared he was going to come after me

**Lance** : And he said some really shitty things but at least that was the end of it, we went back to school in the fall and he always comes up and does vaguely creepy shit like you saw but we pretty much steer clear of each other, which I’m grateful for and isn’t the case for a lot of people like me

**Lance** : And I spend that entire summer when I was reunited with hunk just drinking myself stupid and doing really dumb things and that wasn’t too smart either but it kinda needed to happen, you know?

**Lance** : Cause then in the fall we met pidge cause she’d just come to school and we were messing around and then decided we should start a band and you know the rest of it from there

**Lance** : And he’ll be gone next year so it doesn’t matter anyway

**Keith** : Lance it definitely matters

**Keith** : That’s awful

**Lance** : God I’m glad I didn’t tell you this earlier, you would’ve had a hardass time meeting Lotor

**Keith** : I’m not saying that I won’t punch his teeth out the next time I see him

**Keith** : I’m so furious that he did that to you and got away with it

**Lance** : Cowboy I love this, I love all of your reactions I promise, but don’t worry about it. I’m a big kid and I can handle my own exes

**Lance** : That was a big part of the recovery process, learning I don’t need anyone to save me

**Lance** : So don’t worry about punching lotor, just keep doing exactly what you’ve been doing and that’s all I need from you ok? <3

**Keith** : ok

**Keith** : whatever you need

**Lance** : Thank you :)

**Keith** : not even a little punch?

**Lance** : I mean

**Lance** : If Lotor were to insult you and you punched him to defend yourself

**Lance** : That would be beyond fine with me

**Lance** : With maybe a little bit of extra anger in the punch on my behalf

**Keith** : we can make that happen

**Lance** : *crying-laughing emoji* Don’t get in trouble, none of us have enough bail money to get you out

**Keith** : coran and allura could break me out, I’m not worried

**Lance** : That’s totally fair

**Keith** : this is gonna sound weird and kinda patronizing but I’m really proud of you

**Keith** : you’re such a badass for all of that

**Keith** : I just want you to know

**Keith** : and thanks for telling me

**Keith** : I know it wasn’t easy to talk about

**Lance** : No omg that wasn’t weird at all! That means so much, thanks for being such an awesome listener!

**Keith** : anytime you need me, I’ll be here

**Lance** : I know that :)

**Lance** : Goodnight cowboy

**Keith** : goodnight Lance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You GUYS, I am so proud; last time it took me an entire month to post a chapter, this time it took me...slightly less than a month. I'm gonna count it as a win, and thank you all for being so patient and still reading even as I take my sweet ass time. These chapters are getting so huge, I need to start breaking them up or something but we'll figure that out as we go.
> 
> Click [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4wb4WScBYrM) for a marching band arrangement of 'Cupid Shuffle' by Cupid, which was one of my favorite songs in band <3
> 
> Next chapter features (FINALLY) the introduction of one Matt Holt, as well as more teenagers making bad life choices. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart for reading, commenting and kudos-ing; it means the world to me that you like my stuff, and my only hope is that you continue to enjoy this train-wreck of a fanfiction!
> 
> Chapter Title from 'Dancing in the Dark' by Bruce Springsteen


	9. Stranded in the Jungle

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #forgivemedaddyforihavesinned**

**Pidge:** Alright so everyone better show up for practice tomorrow cause I have got some Big News and I need everyone there

**Lance:** Pidgey we already know you’re gay

**Allura:** We love and support you

**Pidge:** The fuck, that wasn’t what I meant

**Pidge:** Though I love and support you all too *heart-eyes emoji*

**Keith:** I don’t know where else you think we would be if not at practice, not like any of us have a life

**Lance:** exCUSE YOU?

**Lance:** I am an ATHLETE

**Lance:** And nobody put that stupid tendonitis of the asshole tag back up, I know where all of you live

**Shiro:** This current hashtag is an abomination

**Shiro:** And I would like to lodge a formal complaint against it

**Allura:** Overruled, back to the original order of business

**Allura:** I would like to put in a protest for my own thriving social life

**Allura:** I have in fact been referred to as the Queen of Garrison High

**Pidge:** First of all, Lance called you that

**Pidge:** And no one with as many mice as you do could be Queen of anything except NIMH

**Allura:** I will allow the insult to slide without retaliation because that is, in fact, one of the best books ever written

**Pidge:** Girl I know *raised fist emoji*

**Hunk:** Tbh I’m with keith on this one

**Hunk:** None of us ever call out of Voltron practice, no one’s ever late because we all drive over together

**Hunk:** Face it guys, this is a cult

**Hunk:** A very happy cult with lots of mutual love and support and cookies. A happy cult

**Hunk:** The kind of cult bob ross would run

**Hunk:** But we still drink?

**Keith:** bob ross in his rebellious youth?

**Lance:** Did bob ross have a rebellious youth or did he just go straight to love and trees? Like what was the progression on that?

**Shiro:** Can someone please change the hashtag?

**Shiro:** Its very presence scares me

**Pidge:** Shut the fuck up dad

**Lance:** Spoiler alert grandpa, you can change the hashtags in a group chat

**Lance:** Anyone can

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #shiroisnotanyone’sdaddy #shiroiseighteen #shirowantstohaveagoodtimewithhisbandmatesandnotimpregnateanybody #soshutuplance #what’supwiththelions #whyaretheylions #whyaretheythere #nobodytellmetoshutupaboutthelions #IHAVESOMANYQUESTIONSBUTI’MNOTALLOWEDTOASKTHEM #WHYGODWHY**

**Allura:**

**Pidge:**

**Hunk:**

**Keith:**

**Lance:** shit

**Lance:** #repressedemotions

**Shiro:** I’m gonna go take a walk

 

* * *

 

 

Lance genuinely has no idea what Pidge’s surprise is, which he has to say over and over again to a confused Keith who apparently thinks that he and Pidge have some sort of telepathic connection. She seems pretty psyched during the day, so he’s not worried, but he is a tad befuddled – it’s not like Pidge to keep secrets, and he’s not sure what exactly is going on in that evil brain of hers.

It all becomes clear whenever he pulls up in front of the Holt house and sees a very familiar red pick-up in the driveway.

“No,” he says out loud, his face bursting into a smile. “Oh, _shit_.”

He all but runs out of the car, and sees Hunk, Shiro and Allura doing the same from their respective cars. Keith pulls off his motorcycle helmet and looks at them all like they’re aliens.

They all bum-rush the front door, but it swings open before they get there.

“Whaddup edgelords!” Matt Holt yells.

“MATT!” They all scream, throwing themselves at him. Pidge appears from behind him, arms crossed and beaming.

“Holy shit, I missed you!” Lance says, squeezing his ribcage. Matt pats them all on the head, like playing bongos.

“Of course you did, who wouldn’t miss my dashing good looks and impeccable fashion sense?” Matt says, running a dramatic hand through his hair.

“Are those Crocs I see?” Allura says, looking down at his feet.

“Impeccable fashion sense, did I stutter?”

They all pull back to let the kid breathe, and then Shiro goes in for an extra hug. It makes something catch in Lance’s chest, because he knows how much Shiro missed Matt. They were inseparable despite the age difference, best friends since childhood like Lance and Hunk. Shiro and Matt slap backs manfully, squeezed closed together.

Lance suddenly remembers and turns around to find Keith hovering awkwardly in the corner, like usual. He wraps a hand around Keith's back and drags him forward. Shiro and Matt pull away and Matt looks curiously at Keith.

“Keith Kogane,” Lance says, “meet the one and only Matthew Bartholomew Holt.”

“How do you know my middle – you know what, whatever. Nice to meet you,” Matt says with a smile, reaching forward. “Pidge’s told me all about you.”

Keith shakes his hand back, looking slightly dazed.

“You guys are _identical_ ,” he finally says.

Matt cracks up and Pidge takes the opportunity to squeeze in for a hug. Lance is surprised at her restraint, actually, that she’s managed to share him for three whole minutes without attaching herself to him.

“Did you not know that Pidge is my mini-me?” He says, ruffling her hair.

“Excuse you,” she says, extricating herself. “I’m not your mini-me. You’re my…tall-me. You are the carbon copy of me.”

“Is your mother a cloning machine?” Keith asks, eyes flicking back and forth between them. It really is uncanny how much they look alike, despite how many times Lance has seen it. Matt is taller by a good foot, and his hair is lighter, more sandy than Pidge’s darker brown. His face is slightly more angular than hers, but besides that, they’re unmistakable as siblings. They’ve got the same quick brown eyes, same thick fluffy hair, same nose, same mouth. Lance is pretty sure Pidge’s glasses used to be Matt’s.

“Ooh, now that Matt’s here we can play the baby pictures game,” Pidge says, grabbing Keith by the hand and pulling him inside.

Lance follows amusedly, stopping in the kitchen to say hi to the parental Holts. They do the same kind of good-natured complaining that Lance remembers when his older sister came back from college the first time; all the “Oh well, he brought his entire wardrobe with him, so apparently I’m back to being his personal laundry machine!” and “His room’s a wreck, of course, I keep it clean for four months and he’s in it for four minutes and it’s a disaster!”, all accompanied by a besotted smile and fond headshakes, because they’re clearly thrilled to have their son back in the house.

When he finds the rest of the band, they’re in the hallway, Pidge holding out two framed photographs as Keith looks down at them. Lance looks over his shoulder; Pidge picked the hardest two first, when they’re wearing almost identical baby onesies on a white blanket, both beaming at the camera.

“These are the same baby,” Keith is saying stubbornly. “You are showing me the same infant.”

Matt and Pidge both shake their heads. “Nope, one of these is me and one is Matt,” she says.

Keith looks desperately at Lance, who shrugs his shoulders. “I know the answer, but that’s because I lost the first three times.”

“You’ve got a 50/50 shot,” Shiro says, “you can just pick one, honestly.”

Keith thrusts his finger at the baby on the left. “That’s Matt.”

“Nope!” Pidge sings. “Me!”

“Bullshit,” Keith groans. “But the hair’s darker!”

“My hair was darker as a baby, Pidge’s was lighter,” Matt says. “We switched when we grew up.”

“What the actual _fuck_ – “

“Here, amuse yourself with long hair, dress-wearing Pidge,” Hunk says, plucking a different framed picture off the wall. Pidge immediately goes sour.

“Ugh, can we not.”

Keith’s eyebrows raise to his hairline. “Your hair was really long,” he says.

“Look at your cute little Mary Janes,” Allura says with a grin, looking over Keith’s shoulder.

“Fuck off,” Pidge says, getting grumpier and grumpier.

“Your dress is…uh…cute?” Keith tries.

“It’s gross, and I was graduating eighth grade so I had to wear a dress,” she shoots back. “Everybody stop looking at straight Pidge, Matt’s not actually even the big news.”

“How is Matt not the big news?” Shiro says. Pidge snatches the picture back and hangs it up on the wall.

“I am obviously the best part of the big news,” Matt says, smiling down at them, “by gracing you all with my presence. But I was actually thinking of throwing a party at my friend’s house cause his parents are gone this weekend, and I thought maybe Voltron could play your set at the party?”

It takes a second for the words to sink in; but once they do, Lance’s heartrate immediately kicks up about ten notches. “You want us to play at your party?”

Matt grins. “All my friends went to Rockfest, they’d be down to hear the next generation of Voltron. Pidge tells me you guys are cooking up some awesome stuff this year. It’ll be a great chance to practice in front of a crowd.”

Lance is right on the verge of saying _Hell yeah, we’re so in_ , but he turns around to check in on his bandmates. Shiro and Hunk are smiling, Allura’s got her battle face on, Pidge of course looks more than thrilled, and Keith…

Keith’s smile says _Try and stop me_.

“Team Voltron is in,” Lance announces. “Everyone, time for the cheer, let’s go.”

The current members of Voltron groan, but Matt throws his hand down immediately.

“I missed you guys, is that a crime?” He says at their bewildered looks. A flush spreads across the bridge of his nose. “Come on guys, don’t leave me hanging.”

Faced with a blushing Matt Holt, Voltron has no choice but to put their hands in and yell “Roar!” in the middle of the Holts’ hallway.

“Alright, now we gotta practice,” Pidge says, physically herding them down the hall. “Matt, come if you want, but we gotta whip these bitches into shape.”

“Is it time for a training montage?” Hunk says. “I’ve always wanted a training montage.”

“What does a training montage look like in music?” Shiro muses.

“ _School of Rock_ did a good one,” Keith pipes up. Pidge is still all but pushing them down to the garage, much to the amusement of her parents.

“ _Bonzo Goes to Bitburg_ , great song!” Allura concurs. “God, that movie made me think band was cool for the first time. I had a crush on Freddie the drummer.”

“Me too,” Lance muses.

“ _Walk_ ,” Pidge says.

“Okay, but can we do the original song from _School of Rock_ as one of our songs?” Lance says, as they finally step foot in the garage. “Is that copyright infringement?”

“Yes,” at least five people chorus.

“Besides, we’re not doing that,” Pidge says, taking a deep breath now that she’s finally got her children in their right places. Matt plops down on a stack of boxes, watching with a smile. “We have, like, six songs that we are capable of playing, so we need to pick from them tonight and not argue. Because we will argue and change the set list about 800 times. We do that every single practice”

“You sent us the music for _Born to Run_ last night, we should definitely do that,” Keith says. They all start setting up their instruments.

“Ugh, but it’s so complicated,” Hunk says. “We just got it, we won’t have it ready by this weekend.”

"We sound fantastic on it, when we get it right," Allura says. "I'm not sure we've had enough time to practice it, though."

“Should’ve sent it over earlier, Pidgeon,” Lance says absentmindedly.

“Are you _kidding_?” Pidge says.

Right away, Lance’s chest tightens and his stomach drops to his knees. Because that tone of voice doesn’t happen very often. They’ve fucked up, and Pidge is pissed.

He slowly turns to see Pidge with fists clenched and eyes blazing. She seems infinitely taller than her miniscule stature. “You’re gonna get on me because I took a while to get a customized instrumentation to you for two different songs, with nine different parts between them? I’m doing AP work, I’m taking extra music classes at the university, I’ve got a recital coming up that I have to play like four different instruments for, I’m hosting sectionals for the marching band, are you fucking kidding me? _I can’t carry all of you!”_

Fuck, Lance feels terrible. It’s so easy to forget how young Pidge is; she’s barely fifteen, and she’s operating at a college-level for almost everything. When Lance was fifteen, he was drinking buckets of rum at stupid parties to get over Lotor, not composing music and learning impossible instruments. Pidge rarely breaks down, but when she does, she tends to break down hard. She’s the rare combination of extremely logical and extremely emotional, like Hermione Granger, and it makes her meltdowns so cutting; she’s chopped them all down to size in seconds before.

“So if you all want to criticize my timing, then you fucking do it _yourself_ ,” she says, eyes glittering not with anger but with tears, Lance realizes. “I love this band and I love doing it but if you all want to be little shits – “

“Katie,” Matt says quietly, walking up behind her. The name disarms her enough that Matt’s able to take her by the shoulders and steer her off into the corner for some deep breaths.

Lance makes eye contact with the other members of Voltron, all of whom seem similarly shamed, and luckily the telepathy is strong because it looks like they’re all on the same page about how to handle this.

After a long hug from her brother, Pidge finally turns back to the group, rubbing her eyes. She’s only given about a second’s reprieve before she’s completely stampeded by a group hug.

“We’re so sorry, Pidgey,” Hunk says, “we were super inconsiderate and totally didn’t think about you like we should have, and we are super duper super sorry.”

“In the immortal words of Demi Lovato, we are _sorry not sorry_ – wait, fuck,” Lance says.

“We’ll try to do better when thinking about your workload,” Allura says, stroking Pidge’s fluffy hair over and over, just like a cat. Pidge sighs.

“I know you didn’t mean it,” she says. “You’re fine, I promise, apology accepted.”

Keith gives her one last beaming smile and a quick rub on her shoulder, which makes Lance’s poor heart melt. Keith doing any sort of team bonding – or even positive human interaction – always makes Lance feel proud and crumbly inside.

Shiro, ever the diplomat, breaks up the group hug by asking, “Pidge, what do you think should be on the set list?”

She opens her mouth.

“Besides _Born to Run_.”

Hunk stifles a laugh.

“I think we should open with Bruce,” she replies. “Then maybe _What’s My Age_ , and end with _Sorry Not Sorry_. Solid set, good music flow. Get the crowd pumped with some Bruce, angst in the middle, end with Demi.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Allura says.

“Any objections?” Shiro asks, looking around the room. All parties involved shake their heads.

“Alright,” Shiro claps his hands, and Lance laughs at how Dad-like he looks right now. “Let’s get to work guys, we’ve got a lot of music to make.”

They all nod and start setting up their instruments. Lance walks over and pulls the microphone cord out from behind the amps, and Keith comes up from behind him. He pulls a hair tie off his wrist, and as Lance’s heart literally stops, he uses it to pull his hair into a sloppy bun.

“Cool, you got the amp ready, thanks,” he says, completely oblivious to Lance’s dumbstruck face. He hefts the amp up in his strong arms and walks away, his fluffy black bun bobbing behind him.

_Sweet baby Jesus Mary and Joseph_ , Lance thinks.

This has just reached a new level. Lance is going to need some divine help.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day, after dropping Celia off at her karate lesson, Lance drives over to the Garrett house. Hunk’s parents are excited to see him, and despite his protests that he’s only staying for a bit, they convince him to stay for dinner of traditional Hawaiian pork (Lance literally couldn’t say no, okay, Mr. Garrett grills like a _fiend_ ). Afterwards, stuffed and happy, Lance and Hunk make their way into his room to pound out some Killbot Phantasm I. For at least 45 minutes, there’s no talking whatsoever except for smack-downs, the kind of trash-talking that has accompanied this game ever since they rediscovered it with Pidge last year.

Lance loves it; loves the quick-draw but completely predictable thinking that video games require, loves that he and Hunk are so comfortable they don’t need to make small talk, loves that they played this game when they were nine and here they are, almost ten years later, still loving every second. It calms something twisting and hot inside of him, gives him the courage to finally speak up whenever there’s a pause while the next game boots up.

“So, I’m really loving everything about this, but there was actually…kinda something I was hoping to talk to you about.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Hunk says easily, looking over at Lance with a smile. “Thought you might have something on your mind.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

Hunk shrugs and turns back to the game. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured. Figured you would bring it up when you’re ready.”

God, Lance must’ve been a saint in a past life to deserve this guy as a best friend. “Yeah, buddy,” he says, and then clears his throat, swallowing past a sudden bout of nerves that has his heart spiking. “It’s, uh, it’s about Keith.”

Hunk is the best friend in the whole world but he is also an absolute shit; he turns to Lance slowly, a true smirk on his face. “Is it now?”

“Ugh, shut up,” Lance says, flopping back down on the bed.

“What _about_ Keith?”

“I don’t want to tell you anymore.”

“No, you can’t, I have to hear this, this will water my crops and cure my acne and save my village, I just need to hear it – “

“Keith is cute, okay?” Lance gets out.

Hunk does a little _yes_ with his hands, then reaches out and pats Lance’s knee. “There you go, buddy, proud of you.”

“How did you know that’s what I was going to say?”

“I mean, I can’t read your mind or anything, but I feel like you’ve thought he was cute since he first showed up on that motorcycle, and it just took you some time to figure that out.”

Lance sighs, smacking his hands on his face. He’s equal parts mortified that he’s so transparent and impressed with Hunk’s apparent ability to know everything about him. “Yeah, well, you know. You can take the bi kid out of the closet but you can’t…you can’t…”

Hunk waits, very patiently.

“I’ve got nothing,” Lance admits. “I don’t know where that was going.”

“Sounded great!”

“Thanks, buddy.”

“But the hard part’s over!” Hunk says, finally putting the game on full pause and turning to face him. “You’ve admitted your feelings, sometimes denial can last for a lot longer.”

“Sure, I like him,” Lance says, and boy those words are a new feeling. “But does he like me? Does he even like men? Am I ready to try this again after all the shit with Lotor?”

Hunk hums, nodding slowly. Behind him, the start screen of the game flashes on a loop, garish colors thrown against Hunk’s earthen-toned walls. Outside the window, trees caught in the winds rustle gently.

“I can’t get a read on him,” Lance says, haltingly. “I just…I don’t know what his deal is. And I feel stupid for getting a crush on him. Like, he literally just made friends with the band, and now I want to spring my crush on him? Like, ‘Hello, welcome to Garrison High, here is a whole marching band and a whole new smaller band and also maybe go on dates with this lanky, skinny boy with an emotionally traumatized past?’ He runs away from full sentences, he’s absolutely going to run away from _that_.”

“Lance, literally nobody but you has thought of that statement in that order,” Hunk says with a touch of amusement. “And, he’s doing great with the band, he’s clearly loving it, marching band _and_ Voltron. Maybe getting a little romantic involvement would be something he doesn’t know he needs.”

“But is he queer at all? Genuinely, have you gotten _any_ sort of vibe from him?”

“You know my gaydar is shit, dude.”

“I know, but just guess.”

“I don’t know if he’s queer one way or another,” Hunk hedges, “but if I had to take a guess, the only thing I’d say is that I think he has almost no experience one way or the other. Personally, I don’t think he had a lot of friends before us, much less boyfriends or girlfriends.”

That hurts Lance, very deeply; the idea that at his old schools Keith sat alone at lunch, had nobody to talk to in class or text about homework, that he was always getting picked last at gym and maybe went to dances to sit alone on the benches. He knows first-hand how that wears down on you, makes you feel so small and so insignificant that you could just disappear and no one would miss you, and he never, ever wants anyone to feel like that, especially not a genuine sweetheart like Keith.

“But then isn’t it selfish to bring feelings into it? Like, what if I ruin the friendship and Keith feels like he can’t come to Voltron anymore and he loses his only social group?”

“What exactly do you want to do with him?” Hunk says. Ever the analyst. “Like, what would be your ideal end goal here?”

_Kiss him,_ Lance thinks immediately, warmth blooming across his face at the thought. Tangling his fingers in Keith’s thick hair and kissing him up against a wall. Lean right over that guitar strapped to him to give him a quick peck. Come over to his house and lay on his bed and do homework together with lazy breaks to make out and fumble around. Take him to winter formal and buy a corsage that same color as his eyes. Kiss him in the ocean, salt water in his hair and wrinkles in his fingers, rock with him in the waves and press kisses to his collarbones.

An image springs up, completely unbidden: an early date with Lotor, all the way down in Oceanside. Lance had no idea they were going all the way out there, was on the verge of calling his mom to tell her where he was, but Lotor had his dad’s convertible and the way the sea wind tangled in his hair…he reached one hand across the back of the seats and kissed Lance, bold as brass, right at a stop sign, right in front of everybody, a slow smile on his face like Lance was the only person in California he ever wanted to kiss. Lance had no desire to call his mom after that. He never wanted the date to end, after that.

Lance swallows. “I kind of want to do everything with Keith,” he admits.

“Hooh boy,” Hunk says.

“Yep.”

“Lance…”

“And then, what kind of pairing is that? Someone who’s never had a relationship, never done anything, with someone who’s last relationship was a nine-month clusterfuck that ended in therapy and a potential retraining order? Like, who would ever want to get involved with that?”

“Okay, no, stop, no hating on yourself in mi casa,” Hunk says firmly. “Keith would be the luckiest guy alive to get to date you. He would be literally blessed. And I think you’re getting ahead of yourself, Keith doesn’t need to know all that stuff right away – “

“He already knows.”

“ _Really_?”

“Yeah, we talked about it. After all the stuff from last week, Lotor showing up and being a dickfuck.”

Hunk looks at him, brown eyes wide in his face, mouth dropped open a little.

“What?” Lance says, defensive.

“Dude, that’s kinda huge,” Hunk says. “You, like, hated to even talk to me about it for a long time. I don’t think Shiro and Allura knew about it until almost Rockfest last year. But you’ve already told Keith?”

“Yeah, I mean, it was whatever. We were just talking. You know. Like, whatever.”

“I’m really proud of you, that’s such a huge improvement. Honestly. That’s really cool, buddy. And now he already knows! So you don’t have to go through with that conversation! He already gets it!”

Lance nods absentmindedly, looking up at the ceiling. It’s almost sunset now; the room is bathed in soft, low light, shadows gathering in the corners, banished away only by the still-blinking light of Killbot Phantasm I. How many nights has Lance spent in this room? How many sleepovers, how many post-soccer game parties, how many late-night conversations about everything?

“I don’t ever want to lose you again,” he blurts out. “Not for a relationship, not for anything. I never want to ignore you again.”

He sits up to find Hunk looking at him with mild alarm.

“Lance, bro, I promise you’re never gonna lose me,” Hunk says. “Never, ever, okay? Look at me, I’m not worried about it. I trust you, okay? You’re never going to lose me again.”

Lance nods, sniffing.

“Oh God, bring it in buddy, hug time.”

He leans in close and they hug it out, occasionally slapping backs but mostly swaying. When they separate Lance feels cleansed from deep inside; someone’s taken a gentle sponge to him, scooped out all the fear and worry and self-directed anger, left him empty and whole and a little bit tired.

“Thanks, buddy,” he says, and Hunk gives one of his amazing smiles. “Come on, enough about me, tell me how you’re gonna woo Shay to winter formal.”

“Laaance…”

 

* * *

 

 

Keith’s dad drops him off at the party that Saturday. When his dad offered, Keith accepted, and they loaded the bed of the truck with his instruments. Neither of them are saying it out loud, but there’s an ulterior motive to Keith taking the ride besides just father-son bonding.

If Keith gets hammered at this party, he can’t ride his motorcycle home. Keith doesn’t know what’s going to happen, but he’s prepared.

“Alright, call me whenever you’re ready to come home, or call me and let me know you’ve got a ride,” his dad says, sitting in the driveway. “I’ll keep the ringer on loud so don’t worry about waking me up, okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” Keith says, fingers clenching on his jeans. He dressed up tonight in his tightest jeans, black t-shirt and leather jacket, old combat boots on his feet. He doesn’t really know what lead guitarists in rock bands wear these days, so he’s just banking on leather still being cool. “Nothing too crazy, I don’t think.”

His dad gives him an appraising look, and Keith _knows_ that his dad knows what’s going on at this party. All he does, though, is lean in to give Keith a big hug, clapping him on the back.

“Have fun, okay? Keep your phone on. Let me know if you need anything.”

Keith can’t help but snort. “Oh my _God_ , I’m fine. It’s a party.”

“Alright teenager, alright! Get out of here, go take some shots or eat a laundry pack or whatever you guys do these days.”

“How do you even _know_ about that?”

“Go.”

Keith gets out and hauls his instruments up to the front door. He has no idea who’s house this is, or who’s going to be there besides college students and Voltron. He knocks, the sound laughably quiet against the noise from inside. He knocks again after a few seconds. One more time.

_Jesus, okay_ , he thinks, and opens the door himself.

The inside of this house looks like the start of a news article that ends with ‘Local Kids Are Found Shirtless in Alligator Pond’. A pair of Converse are stuck straight up in the air, the boy wearing said shoes upside down and sucking down beer from a keg. No less than five girls are standing on the dining room table, rapping along to the blasting song and testing the absolute limits of the table legs. Through the open patio doors, Keith can see a bonfire that kids are throwing shit into, screaming when the fire pops up in response. Someone’s crying in the hallway, three ( _three!_ ) people are making out in the corner, and at the kitchen table, Matt, Lance, Pidge and ten other people take a shot, slam it down on the table and start bellowing.

On the outside, Keith’s eyes widen slightly. On the inside, he’s fucking screaming.

Lance, flushed and wild, catches sight of Keith when he’s mid-whoop. His scream of “KEITH!” is so loud that half the party turns to Keith.

“Hi,” Keith replies, as Lance, Pidge and Matt all rush over to him. He’s swept up into three sweaty hugs. “Uh, nice party, Matt.”

“Thanks,” Matt grins. He’s dressed very down, in a purple tanktop, jeans and flip-flops. Keith catches a peek of a black tattoo on the inside of his bicep. “It’s my friend Ranaldo’s party, Ranaldo, say hi – “

Ranaldo waves to the group before pounding a tequila shot.

“Everyone’s super pumped for Voltron, you guys are gonna have a good crowd.”

_That’s one word for it,_ Keith thinks, looking out at the drunken crowd. “You guys gonna be good to play? You shouldn’t drink so much.”

“Ugh, live a little, cowboy,” Lance says, rolling his eyes. In two seconds he’s back to the cocky asshole that Keith absolutely hated when he first came to this school. “I’m just loosening up a little, putting some oil in the gears. Take a shot, you’ll feel better.”

“We’re fine to play,” Pidge says, adjusting her glasses. “Stop being a dad, Shiro’s much better at it.”

“Is he here?”

“They’re all here.” She jerks her head to a quiet corner of the living room. “All the equipment’s in a back bedroom, we’ll pull it out before we play.”

Keith nods and walks over to the rest of the band, feeling like he needs to put as much distance between him and Lance as he can before he says something he’ll regret later. Hunk, Allura and Shiro are sitting clustered around an ottoman; Hunk and Allura have drinks in their hand, Shiro does not. They all look up and smile at Keith.

“Hi, buddy,” Hunk says.

“Hi,” Keith says, gratefully sinking down to sit next to Allura on the floor. He’s got the beginnings of a headache from the loud music, which is saying something because Keith’s eardrums are pretty fried after a lifetime in marching band.

“So…” Keith says. “This is a party.”

“Yes, indeed,” Hunk says. “Much party.”

Shiro cracks a smile. “You can say it, Matt throws really intimidating parties.”

“Yes, holy shit, who are all these people?” Keith says.

Shiro shrugs as he looks around. It’s so weird that all of these people are older than Shiro; Keith’s grown so used to Shiro as the old, responsible presence that seeing him visibly younger than all of these college kids is totally throwing Keith off. It feels like he’s in an alternate dimension where Shiro is somehow not simultaneously a child and an adult at the same time, but instead just an eighteen-year-old kid. “I recognize some of these guys, some of them probably go to Colburn.”

“All of them seem to know Lance,” Keith mutters. Right now he’s thankful to the music for hiding the tone of his voice: hurt, betrayed, angry even though he has no right to be.

“That’s just Lance, he makes friends anywhere he goes,” Allura says, taking a sip of her drink. She looks fantastic tonight; she’s wearing a choker and pink sparkly fishnets, along with casual denim shorts and a ripped t-shirt. Keith didn’t know it was possible to be punk and beachy at the same time, but Allura proves all things are possible. “And Pidge is a leech when it comes to her brother.”

“I mean, I guess it was a given, they look so much alike,” Keith says.

Allura raises an eyebrow at him. “Oh, they’re aware. Why do you think Pidge cut her hair in the first place?”

“Gay crisis?”

“Well, yes,” Allura says, “but my theory is that the gay crisis happened to coincide with a long-standing desire to be like Matt.”

“Allura.” Shiro’s eyes are flinty. “What’s wrong with Pidge wanting to be like Matt? They’re really close, always have been. Matt adores her.”

“I never said he didn’t. I just said it seemed a bit…coincidental.”

“Well, would you please stop judging one of my oldest friends?”

“Oh Jesus,” Hunk says, dropping his head into his hands, “Mom and Dad are fighting. I hate when Mom and Dad fight.”

“I’m going to go get a drink.” A kitchen full of drunk strangers and toxic alcohol is infinitely better than the icy tension coiled up between Allura and Shiro.

In the kitchen, Keith stares blankly at the table of drinks and mixers. How the hell does he know what tastes good together? He grabs vodka, cause that sounds hard as fuck, pours a generous slug into a red cup, and then grabs randomly for the ginger ale.

“Keithyyyy, what’s good boo – ooh, you doing a whiskey and ginger?”

Keith’s spine stiffens. It’s Lance, slinking into the room, limbs loose and hair floppy, eyes dark like a cat.

“Nah, vodka.”

Lance makes an affronted face and reaches one inhumanely long arm around Keith. “Ew, gross, no. Here.”

He hands Keith the bottle of orange juice. “Much better with vodka, I promise.”

“Learned the hard way, didn’t you?” Keith snips.

Lance’s eyes narrow, and as soon as it’s out Keith regrets it. It has the opposite reaction than Keith expected; for better or worse, Lance isn't getting sad about Lotor tonight. Instead, he tips his chin up, uses his height advantage to look down at Keith.

“Was that really fucking necessary?” His voice is clipped.

“Well, you’re drunk and we’re about to play our first concert, so yeah, maybe,” Keith says. God, he _hates_ himself, he hates this voice, he doesn’t want to do this, but it _won’t stop_. “You always talk about how important Voltron is to you, and here you are acting like a whole-ass idiot just cause Pidge’s brother puts some booze on a table.”

“You don’t know shit about me,” Lance articulates. “You don’t know shit about what Voltron means to me, and you can go _fuck_ yourself if that’s all you’ve got to say to me.”

“ _Hell_ no that’s not all I’ve got to say, if you would just _listen_ – “

“Oh my God, _seriously_?” They both whip around to see Pidge in the doorway, eyes wide behind her glasses, drink in hand and flush on her cheeks. “Fucking seriously? You’re fighting again?”

“Not anymore,” Lance says, and turns on his heel and leaves. Keith watches him go with his ribs tight around his lungs, feeling his heartbeat pulse all the way in his fingertips. Distantly, he thinks that Lance is _savage_ when he’s angry and drunk; most of the time his insults are more fumbling than cutting. Tonight was a whole new side of this boy.

“ _Dude_ ,” Pidge says slowly, stepping inside slowly. Thank God no one else has come in the kitchen for a drink. “What was that about?”

“Lance getting drunk,” Keith replies. But it really wasn’t about that at all, was it? This was about something else, maybe a few other somethings that have been hovering in the air between them for months now. Keith splashes some ginger ale in and takes a deep drink.

_Fuck_ Lance, he was right, that tastes gross. He takes another deep pull, out of stubbornness.

“Lance is going to be fine,” Pidge says. “Yeah, he’s tipsy, but he’s fine to sing. It’s your tight ass that I’m worried about. If you didn’t like parties and didn’t want to perform here you could’ve just said.”

“No dude, you were so excited about your brother being here.”

Pidge shrugs, making her tank top sleeve slide off her bony shoulder. “We’re a band, Keith. Nobody is more important than anybody else.”

The easy way she says that – like it’s a foregone conclusion, like it’s self-evident – soothes the fire in Keith’s chest. “It’s not really even that,” he says, softer. “It’s…I don’t know.”

“It’s Lance,” Pidge says. “That’s all you need to say. Come on, take that shitty drink and let’s go do something dumb.”

‘Something dumb’ ends up being beer pong, something which Keith was unsure if people really did or if it was something made up for inclusion in shitty college movies. Turns out it’s very real, and there are rules, and it’s kind of hard. Lance isn’t interested in playing (Keith’s gut sinks at the realization that it’s probably because he sees Keith hanging around the table), so it turns out to be the Holts versus Hunk and Allura. The match is shockingly even – Allura takes a bit to figure out her throwing angle, but when she does she’s incredibly accurate, and Hunk is a steady player from the get-go, eyes narrowed and wrists flicked easily as he lands balls in the cup.

The Holts, of course, are monsters. They spent five minutes before the match talking about angles and strategies, and they play defense by doing really distracting a capella covers of shit like Barbie Girl and the Pokemon theme song, just enough to throw Allura and Hunk off their game. Their weakness is that Pidge, at ninety-two whole pounds, is a lightweight, and Matt is frequently distracted by Allura’s tits, much as he pretends he’s not looking. Keith stands to the side with Shiro and they do color commentary under their breath.

It ends in a double-overtime redemption shot that makes the whole party gather around. Hunk sank a killer shot to end the game; if both Holts can make a shot in the same cup, they win. Matt steps up, narrows his eyes against all the hollering and cheering and Allura humping the table leg to distract him and gets it right in the center. Pidge is actively swaying on her feet when she gets up, owl eyes rolling around in her head, but all it takes is one word from Matt in her ear and she snaps to life like a soldier and fires off a perfect shot.

“Damn,” Keith says appreciatively, as the whole room erupts. Matt lifts Pidge off her feet and almost makes to throw her before Shiro steps in. Allura and Hunk swear revenge and Matt yells at them to bring it on. Keith sees, just across from him, Lance standing in almost the exact same position as him, amusedly watching the proceedings. They make brief eye contact and then cut away, sour sparks bursting in Keith’s stomach.

“I think it’s time for some music!” Matt yells, as the whole party hollers back. “You all ready for some fuckin’ _Voltron_?”

Everyone screams, and Keith’s nerves drag themselves back up to the surface. Fuck, now they have to play. Everyone turns instinctively to Shiro, who gives them a reassuring smile and a nod.

Voltron scatters, everyone splitting up to grab their various instruments and amps. Matt enlists a couple of his friends (Ranaldo, the host, is noticeably absent – last Keith saw him, he was calling his ex-girlfriend while crying on the dog) to move the couches and clear out a space in the living room. The party rages around them while Voltron is mostly silent, each person setting up their own equipment. Keith still hasn’t said a damn thing to Lance since the kitchen, and his silent presence grates on him. Even when he’s turned away he can feel Lance, the way you can feel a missing tooth; every tiny glimpse of Lance fussing with his microphone sets Keith’s hair on edge.

Shiro calls everyone over when they’re all set up, all of them huddling up together. Keith listens up for a talk about their musicality, about their various parts, but instead Shiro smiles and says,

“We’re going to do amazing tonight, guys, okay?”

Around him, everyone else is staring in rapt attention, apparently still waiting for a lecture. Shiro rolls his eyes.

“Guys, lighten up, I’m not going to tell you to do anything. I just wanted to take a second to say that you guys are my best friends, and it’s an honor every time I get to play with you all. Tonight’s no exception.”

“Shiro,” Allura murmurs, and he turns his head to give her a beaming smile.

“Bring it in, bitches, time for the cheer.” Lance puts his hand in the center and no one hesitates before following. “On three – one, two, three – “

“ROAR!” Voltron shouts, and the party cheers in response.

They grab their rock band instruments and arrange themselves for Born to Run, Lance dragging the microphone up to the center. In the midst of all the drama tonight, Keith has somehow forgotten that they’re playing for real people, and it’s so different from marching band, when they’re all one homogeneous block and no one can pick out individual players. The crowd here is barely five feet away, just out of Lance’s arm range, and he can pick out every single drunk, sweaty face just like they can pick him out. He rolls his shoulders, trying to chase away the nerves, and Lance turns over his shoulder and makes quick eye contact. Keith musters up a smile and a shrug, and Lance gives a quick, close-lipped smile. It’s not much, but it’ll have to work.

Shiro’s sticks click them in – _one, two, three, four_ –

Keith leads them in the opening riff, fingers sure on chords that he’s played a hundred times already. It’s as much of a gut-punch as it always is, Shiro hammering down, Allura bringing the texture, Pidge crooning in the corner. A real smile finally appears on Lance’s face, as he taps his feet and dances with little punches of his shoulders. The little crowd in front of them is roaring.

_Least we got one thing right,_ Keith thinks. _People still know Born to Run._

Lance grabs the mic tight and lays it out. “In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream…”

His voice is smooth and silky, not quite fitting in with the rest of the song or the band. The verses are mostly Hunk and Pidge, and Hunk’s keeping them on beat even as Pidge improvs a bit. Keith looks behind him, because she just jumped an octave for no reason in one section and that’s not like her, and his stomach drops because she is _drunk_. She’s leaning almost completely into Hunk. It looks funny, actually, like she’s being cool, but Keith can tell – kid is plastered. _Fuck._

She’s actually perfectly in tune, and probably nobody can tell but them, but everyone else in Voltron is making panicked eye contact about the upcoming sax solo and it’s throwing them off. Hunk and Shiro keep everyone moving, even as Keith kind of flubs the chorus, and Lance sings as loud and hard as he can leading into the solo. Pidge’s eyes are closed, swaying as she plays like a tiny, wasted Stevie Nicks.

“Cause baby I’m just a scared and lonely rider,” Lance sings, desperately looking at Keith, “But I gotta know how it feels, I wanna know if love is wild, baby I wanna know if love is real!”

The audience cheers, and Lance croons, “Oh, can you show me?” Pidge’s eyes are still closed as Keith plays the riff again, still swaying, looking totally out of it, Hunk nudges her with his shoulder and she still doesn’t do shit. It’s coming up in four beats, Lance all but coughs into the mic, _holy shit she’s gonna miss the fucking sax solo_ –

Like flipping a switch, her eyes pop open and she runs to the front of the group, laying down a flawless sax solo to a screaming crowd. Matt’s jumping up and down like a groupie. Keith almost forgets to play, he’s so fucking startled. Allura is mouthing _What the fuck_ to herself, fingers still playing.

Pidge lets the last note linger as she slides back to her spot, and Lance tosses her a look before he heads into the bridge. “Beyond the palace, hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard; girls comb their hair in rear-view mirrors and boys try to look so hard…”

_Fuck,_ it’s almost time for the breakdown, Keith’s not sure he can pull it off tonight. It’s so fast and his fingers have trouble on the chords and it’s, like, impossible – normally he loves the breakdown, loves the challenge of it, but he’s so off his game he knows right now this is gonna be a clusterfuck -

“I wanna die with you Wendy on the streets tonight in an everlasting kiss!”

Keith throws himself into the breakdown, completely tuning out the crowd and pretty much everyone else as he plays as fast as his fingers will allow. He thinks he’s doing okay, he’s kind of lost Shiro’s drums and that’s definitely not good, so he tries to bring himself back and maybe misses a few notes but at this point it’s about finishing, not perfecting, because these guys are too drunk to tell anyway. The guitar breakdown is normally followed by a really good full-band breakdown, everyone slowing down and holding out their notes before jumping back to full tempo for the final chorus. Usually all the instrumentalists make eye contact and Shiro can direct the timing that way, but tonight’s arrangement has Keith and Hunk craning their necks to look. Pidge isn’t looking at all, playing with her eyes closed, and hard as Shiro tries there’s just no way to keep them all in check. They splinter, just a bit, just enough to be noticeable, an errant guitar chord or piano clink out of beat with Shiro’s cymbals. Shiro sends a desperate look to Lance, who jumps back in before anyone’s ready –

“The highway’s jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive!”

He skipped the entire count in but that’s fucking fine, Keith just wants this damn song to be over and they snap back in time on the chorus pretty quickly. Lance clearly knows he fucked up but it doesn’t matter cause all he has to do is belt out that last chorus, and the party’s singing along so he barely has to do anything.

He ends with a triumphant final “Baby, we were born to run!” And applause bursts forth. He hams it up, bowing and blowing kisses, distracting the audience. Then he turns around and hisses,

“Allura, get her some _water_.”

Allura climbs out from behind the keys and gently unclips Pidge’s saxophone from her neck. She perks up and waves out at the crowd, who wave back before Allura hustles her off to the kitchen.

The remaining boys make desperate eye contact, because that was one of their worst run-throughs of that song and Keith has no idea how they’re gonna pull off a full three-song set. Hunk musters up a smile and says, almost inaudible over the noise,

“Nowhere else to go but up?”

Lance laughs, and Keith tries for a smile. Shiro rubs his wrist out, flexes it back and forth a few times, and then takes his sticks in hand again.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he says to Keith.

Keith nods. Taking a deep breath, he looks down and picks out the opening chords to _What’s My Age Again?_ The crowd cheers again, some girl in the back screaming, “Oh my God I love this song!” And it gives them the boost they need. Hunk comes in on the bassline, Shiro quietly keeping time on the cymbals.

“I took her out, it was a Friday night,” Lance sings, smiling so it shows through his voice. “I wore cologne to get the feeling right – “

Shiro comes down heavier on the snare. “We started making out, and she took off my pants, but then I turned on the TV – “

They all surge together on the chorus, four perfectly in-time instruments as Lance sings, “And that’s about the time she walked away from me! Nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three! And I’m still more amused by TV shows, what the hell is ADD? My friends say I should act my age – what’s my age again? What’s my age again?”

Keith never really listened to this song much before, but these days it’s become one of his favorites – he’s not twenty-three and lost but he is seventeen and lost, and he feels like he could scream song at the top of his lungs and it still wouldn’t be enough to express the feeling of _wrongness_ that sometimes fills him, the idea that there’s something he could be doing better but he just _can’t_. But everyone else clearly feels the same way, because every person in this party is jamming out, all of them screaming the words back to them.

The bridge is Keith’s favorite part, and he suffers through the awkwardness of everyone screaming at him because it’s such a fun guitar part. He ducks his head, concentrating on the awesome fingering, rapid-fire and joyful. Hunk’s got his own complicated bass part, tapping his foot as he uses a pick to pluck out the bassline, and a quick glance shows Shiro having a riot on the drums as he bangs his head and thrashes. He makes eye contact with a grinning Lance, who brings it all home with a belted –

“That’s about the time that she broke up with me! No one should take themselves so seriously – with many years ahead to fall in line, why would you wish that on me? I never want to act my age, what’s my age again? _What’s my age again?”_

They end with one last jam session and a fierce “What’s my age again?” before it fades off. The drunk teenagers scream again, applause filling the room, and Keith lets himself take a deep breath. He squints through the crowd and sees Allura and Pidge re-enter; Pidge still looks trashed but at least her eyes are open now, her face slightly less flushed. Allura pats her hair back into place and adjusts her fishnets before flashing them a thumb’s up as they walk back up to the stage.

“That was awesome,” she yells at them, her voice almost swallowed up by the crowd. “Totally kick-ass, great job!”

Keith nods and reaches down to grab his water bottle. They’ve just gotta get through _Sorry Not Sorry_ and then they’re done. Behind him, he can hear Hunk putting his bass away, the amp fizzing and then cutting out. The screams start up again, however, whenever he pulls out his tuba. Up front, Matt keeps bellowing, “Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh yeah! OH SHIT!” Like he doesn’t go to a music school and sees tubas every day.

Keith’s trumpet feels alive in his hands, the metal strangely warm even though it’s been sitting in the case for the past two hours. Behind him, Allura fits her piccolo together and plays a few experimental trills. All the instrumentalists huddle together for a quick tuning, Hunk hovering over them, the crowd talking and laughing behind them. Up front, Lance looks down at the ground, looking vulnerable in the muted light from the house. Keith’s eyes snag on the curve of his body, the audacity of his one jutted-out hip against the rest of his softness. He’s absolutely striking.

The instrumentalists rearrange themselves, all in line in front of two mics to make sure the piccolo gets heard. There are a few moments when everyone’s ready to play but no one’s quite ready to start playing; a suspension in the air. Shiro rolls his bad wrist methodically, round and round and round.

Lance looks over his shoulder at them and breaks the spell. He throws a quick cat claws and a wink at them. Hunk hefts the tuba up his shoulders and starts in on the bassline.

_Dun dun dun – dun-dun-dun dun dun –_

“Now I’m out here looking like revenge, feeling like a ten, the best I’ve ever been – “

Oh _shit._

Lance sounds shaky as _shit._ His voice, which normally is made for this song, is cracking and a bit weak. The crowd’s still eating it up, but Keith can tell. This is not good.

“Now payback is a bad bitch and baby I’m the baddest, you fucking with a savage, can’t have this, can’t have this – “

Normally Lance would wiggle and shake at this part, but he’s holding onto the mic so desperately it’s like a life preserver. His eyes are huge in his flushed face and it’s clear he’s one breath from completely falling apart. Keith doesn’t know if it’s the alcohol, the timing of the song later in the set, the night or Lotor or _what_ , but he gets the desperate sinking feeling that this is going to end terribly.

Luckily for Lance he has almost a full band to hide behind, and there are parts where he’s almost masking his voice behind Pidge’s saxophone. The instruments play as hard as they can, Keith absolutely wailing on the choruses, and everyone’s drunk enough to be impressed by Hunk’s tuba and the sheer presence of the instruments here tonight. Matt Holt is the only one not fooled; he’s got his brows furrowed, looking at Lance, arms crossed and fingers clenched tight.

“Baby I’m sorry – “

“I’m not sorry!” The crowd sings along with the instruments, a small saving grace.

“Baby I’m sorry – “

“I’m not sorry!”

“Being so bad got me feeling so good – showing you up like I knew that I could! Baby I’m sorry – “

The crowd’s enthusiasm carries them through to the bridge, and Keith will never say another bad word about drunk white girls in his life again because they’re saving the band right now with their ear-piercing singing.

But he can physically hear Lance’s voice crack when he starts in on “Walk that walk baby, talk that talk baby.” He’s _shot_.

_He can’t hit the high note,_ Keith realizes, playing his trumpet with only half his brain. _He’s not gonna hit it._

If Lance doesn’t hit the high note, the whole song falls apart, there’s no climax without it. Keith watches him desperately, looking to see any signs of him changing it, any signal back to the instruments that they’re going to take over.

But it’s nothing, he’s still barreling towards the note, the bridge is climbing higher and higher.

_He’s going to botch it, there’s no way he can hit it –_

“If you talk, if you talk that talk baby, better walk, better walk that walk baby – “

Lance takes a breath and Keith _knows_ –

He jumps in with the trumpet, cutting Lance off and hitting the high note himself. The crowd hollers at him and Matt’s eyes pop wide open. Keith can’t look at anyone else in Voltron, can’t do anything but ride out the note, bringing it back down the scale until he’s completely out of lungs.

Nobody reacts at all, everyone keeps playing, and Lance takes back over the singing now that it’s back in his range. Lance doesn’t do any of his normal fills at the end, just lets Hunk’s bassline end out the song. He doesn’t turn around, doesn’t look at Keith, doesn’t react at all.

The cheers from the party are deafening and Keith belatedly thinks, _Oh my God, we pulled that off._ The exhausted members of Voltron all stumble together in a line and take a bow. Keith can’t even look, just watches Lance for his reaction, and Lance stays beaming at the crowd, waving and smiling.

He finally turns and locks eyes with Keith just as they’re breaking out of the bow.

The fury on his face could melt glass.

He turns off the mic and mutters something about getting a drink of water. He shoulders his way through the crowd to the kitchen, and Keith follows him like he’s pulled by a magnet, heat and pressure building in his sternum. Before he hits the kitchen Lance takes a detour through the open patio doors, spilling out into the backyard, where the dying embers of the campfire still lie smoldering and autumn stars stretch above them, blocked by the giant shades of palm trees. Keith follows, and he’s hot on Lance’s tail when he turns around and says, “What the _fuck_ was that?”

“What the fuck was what?” Keith replies.

“You stole my fucking high note!”

“You weren’t going to hit it,” Keith says, clear as day. Behind him, the rest of Voltron and Matt Holt are rushing outside, pulling the door shut behind them.

“You don’t know that!” Even now Lance’s voice is reedy, but his chest is puffed out like a lion. “You stole it without even a fucking warning, that’s my job and you took it from me!”

“I fucking saved our asses out there, or didn’t you realize? Your shit vocals were _botching_ it!”

“Keith!” Shiro yells, but it’s far too late for that.

“My shit vocals wouldn’t have needed saving if you’d let me try! I had a plan, you know!”

“Oh, really?” Keith taunts, face burning. “What plan? Crack your voice on the high note and then cough in the corner for the rest of the song? You didn’t have it, man, everyone could tell, take the L and thank me for saving the band!”

“You didn’t save _shit_!” Lance screams back. “You’re a hotshot, douchebag, fucking – _asshole_ and we were better off before you showed up at this school and ruined _everything_!”

“ _Fuck you!_ ” Keith bellows, tears bubbling in his eyes, totally ready to swing –

“No!”

Allura plants herself firmly in between them, using her height to glare down at them. “This is not happening tonight!”

It’s just enough time for Hunk and Pidge to dart forward and grab Lance and Shiro and Matt to grab Keith, pulling both of them back and away. Keith pulls half-heartedly at their arms, eyes still locked on Lance. Tendons are standing out in Lance’s arms and he runs a dirty hand under his nose and Keith wants to punch him and kiss him and punch the _fuck_ out of him.

“You two, go home,” she commands. “Actually, everyone go home, we’re done for tonight. Team meeting on Monday.”

“I don’t need to go home, I don’t need babysat,” Keith grumbles.

“Your prior actions say otherwise,” she replies coolly.

Lance jerks his shoulder out of Hunk’s hand and storms back into the house, slamming the door behind him. Matt throws Keith a complicated look and rushes inside after him. Shiro comes up to the Keith to talk to him, Pidge and Hunk too, but Keith walks away, over to the corner of the yard by some rotting old swing set, arms crossed and shoulders up. He knows it’s childish but he can’t talk to anyone right now, can’t stand anyone else saying literally anything. He’d probably punch someone even if they told me he made all the right choices tonight. And he’s slowly starting to realize that no matter what else, he did not make all the right choices tonight.

He kicks the pockmarked fence a few times, enough to make his toes sting and throb and leech some of the excess pain out. He blinks, forcing the few remaining tears out of his eyes and down his cheeks, and barely allows them to track before he’s scrubbing them away. He feels foolish, and furious, and heartsick, and exhausted. He plops down in the swing and morosely kicks his feet on the dirt, half-heartedly swaying up and back.

It’s at least another ten minutes before he hears footsteps on the dirt, and his shoulders instinctively rise up to his ears.

“Are you alright if I join?” It’s Allura.

Keith shrugs, because he’s honestly not sure if he wants her to join or not but propriety has him saying yes. Allura walks up and sits down in the swing next to his. Her eyes are tired and her hair is frizzy. She looks like she’s been through the ringer.

“How are you?” She still asks. She’s a good friend, she’s such a good friend, and Keith can barely appreciate it right now. He shrugs again.

“I’m pretty sure you know how to speak English, Keith. Let’s try for some words, okay?”

“Lance is an idiot,” is what Keith says.

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

Yes, of course Keith knows that, his stupid crushing heart has never for a single second forgot that. “So why was he going for that note? He should’ve known he wouldn’t have hit it, I was doing everyone a favor.”

“He was challenging himself, and I for one think that should be commended.”

“We were going to sound shitty.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” Allura says, turning to him. “It was front of a drunk crowd of people we’ll never see again. Is it so bad to let him mess up?”

“Yeah, but – I just wanted to help – “

“I think you did a great thing tonight,” she cuts him off. “I think you sounded wonderful and you thought on your feet. You were incredible. I just…think we should think of this from Lance’s perspective as well.”

Keith doesn’t want to be rational. He wants to rage and rail and kick things and maybe cuss Lance out, and then go home and have a silent cry in his pillow. He doesn’t want to face the consequences of this. He wants to be right and everyone else to be wrong; he wants to be the absolute, undisputed hero and he doesn’t want to think about how shitty Lance could be feeling right now.

“We’ll work it out,” Allura says, her voice soft in the night. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

_Doesn’t matter_ , Keith thinks. _I’ll be gone from this school next year._

It’s the same thought he’s had every year, at every school, as soon as something happens – a teacher he doesn’t like, or another failed attempt at social interaction, or another kid who assumes he’s a bully and starts to defend themselves from him before he’s said a single word. It’s always been a saving grace, as awful as it was – when you don’t put down roots, nothing can rip you from them.

This has always been his escape hatch.

He tips his head up to the sky and forces himself to put a new name to the emotions that rise up at this familiar thought.

_I don’t want to leave next year._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh look, it's PVB back on her bullshit! Sorry it took me another month, friends. I hope the chapter makes up for the wait! Y'all know we had to throw a wrench in this somewhere...
> 
> Next chapter we're back with some marching, some Keith/dad bonding, some fun sexuality discussions. It'll probably be up for Pride month, so at least that timing is pretty excellent. Thank you all so much for reading, let me know what you thought!
> 
> Chapter Title from 'Tenth Avenue Freeze-Out' by Bruce Springsteen; this song is famously about the first night that Bruce met Clarence Clemons in Asbury Park, New Jersey, so I thought it fitting for the first public performance of Voltron.


	10. Wheels of Fire

Band practice hasn’t felt like a warzone in quite a while; but when Keith walks in on Monday, the feeling is acutely familiar.

Lance has almost totally sequestered himself with the drumline, who to Keith’s knowledge he hasn’t actually hung out with since band camp. When Keith enters, Lance makes a valiant effort of completely ignoring him that falls flat. He’s trying so hard not to look at Keith that it looks physically painful. Keith doesn’t actually mind; it hurts, of course, but it makes him feel better about the maybe 45 minutes of sleep he got after the party. At least Lance is affected too.

The rest of Voltron is lounging by the podium, where Coran is uncharacteristically absent. Keith makes his way over, stubbornly not making eye contact with anyone.

“Good morning, Keith,” Allura says.

“Hey.”

“How are you doing?”

He tries to come up with words and instead offers a shrug and some weird attempt at a human facial expression. Judging by everyone’s face, he did not succeed.

“It’s fine,” Shiro says, sufferingly. “We had a bad gig. It happens. We learn from it.”

“Also, Keith, there’s no need to beat yourself up, because we _all_ fucked up – _right_ , Pidge?” Allura says.

“Your voice,” Pidge grunts. “I need it, like…ten decibels lower.”

“How are you still hungover?” Hunk says, in slight awe.

“I drank most of my body weight in straight vodka.” Pidge is wearing a hoodie that is at least four sizes too big for her, with the hood pulled so low over her face that all Keith can see is her mouth. The sleeves go almost to her knees. “And let us head this off at the pass – that’s not a lot of body weight, I know. God, I predicted Lance’s shitty jokes and he’s not here to appreciate it.”

The mention of Lance has Keith’s stomach sagging to his knees, and he has to fight to keep his face impassive. God, this boy can probably hold a grudge for _years_. Is this a genuinely friendship-ending fight? Does all of it – the pool, garage dancing, the beach, drunken bonding, maybe the single closest connection Keith’s ever had to another person – does it all end here? And just when Keith had finally admitted to himself that he might want something more?

The buzz of Allura’s phone pulls Keith out of his spiral. She casually digs it out of her pocket and swipes open the screen. After a few seconds, her eyebrows raise and her mouth opens slightly.

“What’s up?” Shiro asks.

“Coran can’t make it today,” she tells them. “He’s sick, got a cold or something. I _knew_ I should’ve made him got to the doctor, he was clammy all night and couldn’t keep anything down.”

“Oh no, that’s awful, I hope he feels better!” Hunk says immediately.

“He’ll be fine, but he told me to tell Pidge to run practice today.”

“What?” Pidge’s head shoots up.

“Yeah, he said that you were to run practice.”

“Not…Rolo and Nyma?” She lowers the hood slowly. “The people who’s job it is to help Coran run the band?”

Allura shakes her head. “He wants you to run through _Carry On My Wayward Son._ ”

Keith literally balks, and Hunk scrunches up his nose. “We’ve never gotten through a full run of that song,” Pidge points out. “It’s the single hardest song in our flipbook. We haven’t done it all the way through even when Coran _was_ here!”

“He says we’re ready,” Allura says, looking down at the texts coming in. “He says he wants you to conduct it through. He says he doesn’t trust Rolo and Nyma with this.”

In that moment Pidge looks desperately young, her big owl eyes darting around the group like she’s looking for someone to save her. Keith’s not sure what to say – _you don’t have to? You can do it?_ Coran’s chill and all but he’s still the teacher; are they allowed to tell him no?

“Um, okay,” she finally says.

“You got this,” Shiro says.

She stands up and zips out of her hoodie, revealing a thin green tank top underneath that makes her look frail and weak with her skinny arms and bony shoulders. Allura walks off to Coran’s office, presumably to get the full sheet music, and Pidge walks up behind Coran’s usual podium. This unusual sight has an instantaneous effect.

“Um, what’s up?” Shay calls out.

“Where’s Coran?” Rolo yells.

Lance immediately turns away from the drummers, his eyes locking in on Keith who’s walking up to his usual seat. “What’s going on?”

“Coran won’t be here today, so he asked Pidge to run practice,” Allura says, walking back in. She drops the sheet music on the podium.

“I’m _sorry_ ,” Nyma says, “but is Pidge Holt the drum major? Running practice for Coran is our job.”

“I’m _not_ sorry that Coran trusts the student who is a musical prodigy to run practice on our most difficult song,” Allura snaps back. Nyma raises one perfect eyebrow and Keith feels chills down his back. Oh look, he’s suddenly in _Mean Girls_ , his least favorite teen movie. “You can take it up with him if you’ve got a problem.”

“Oh we will, bet on it,” Rolo replies. Lance sings, “Bet on it, bet on it, bet on it, bet on it!” And the whole room bursts out in laughter. Keith peeks at him from under his hair and has never felt more grateful for Lance and who he is.

“Alright, cool it, kids,” Pidge says. It’s the first she’s spoken, and she keeps one finger scrolling over the music. Her shoulders are a bit more relaxed, her other hand planted on her hip. “So you’ve heard, we’re running number 8, _Carry On_ at full tempo.”

Mutterings start up amongst the band. Behind Keith, Hunk mutters, “ _Shit_.”

“No, we got this,” Pidge says. “It’s well within our capacity. Lance, Keith, you guys are gonna be my first trumpets.”

“What?” Keith reaches for the sheet and balks at this trumpet part. It’s fucking _insane_. “Pidge – “

“You telling me you can’t?”

“This is stratospheric,” Lance says, waving his music. “These notes are literally in _space_. What’s with this run?”

“Oh come on, boys, where’s that competitive spirit? Where’s that friendly rivalry?” She pushes her glasses up her nose and smirks at them. “Prove me wrong. Ace this shit.”

Lance and Keith send each other a glance, tension still thick in the air. Keith doesn’t want to play this part with Lance.

But he’d still rather do it than play this part with anyone _other_ than Lance.

“Everybody, we’re gonna stay tight with this,” Pidge calls out, voice clear and ringing. “Bass drums, this is you guys, you’re the driving force of this. Bones, stay with the bass. Saxes, if any of you fuck up I’m coming for you personally, I know you’ve got this. And everyone follow the trumpets. We’ve got a tendency to rush this so I need you to stay with me.”

She snaps out a beat. “Got it, Shiro?”

“Got it,” he calls out, picking it up on the rim.

“Alright,” she says, grinning like a warlord, “let’s run this bitch! Horns up!”

Keith lifts his horn, he and Lance both frantically scanning their music. His fingers twitch on the keys, the old thrill of the challenge rising up in him. He looks over at Lance one last time, and Lance quirks one side of his mouth up.

“One, two, three, four!” Pidge yells.

The drums lead them in, and then it’s just the rip of trumpets, soaring over the whole band. _Carry on my wayward son, there’ll be peace when you are done –_ Keith thinks the lyrics in his head as he plays, already running short on breath. _Lay your weary head to rest; don’t you cry no more!_

The trombones take over the melody, giving the trumpets a break, a quick and powerful part much faster than usual trombone fare. Keith glances over his shoulder to see Hunk’s brows furrowed, arm working furiously on his slide. Keith counts measures until the verses, taking the deepest breath he can before they plunge in.

Lance was right, it’s stratospheric and so high, but they’re almost totally in sync, the rest of the trumpets following their lead as they blaze through the quick verse.

“Atta boys!” Pidge yells out, conducting from the front of the room. “Stay with it!”

There’s literally nothing in Keith’s mind right now but these notes, following the rush of melody. One note after the other. He’s in the zone. Bass drums pump. Lance is hot beside him, flaming.

“Everyone on the chorus!” Pidge yells, and they all come in together, brass and winds and drums. Lance and Keith take their first trumpet deviation, just the two of them soaring high on the descant. Keith thinks they sound good, and then looks ahead at the murderous second verse and thinks, _Jesus tittyfucking Christ –_

The trumpets barrel right into it, all of them together at first. Keith and Lance split off for a climbing, quick-fire deviation, the trombones coming in to back up the second trumpets. Keith’s staring at his music hard enough to drill holes, his whole face red.

“You got it boys, stay on it! Finish strong!” Pidge shrieks at them.

They’re coming up on the insane, trilling run, and Keith takes one look at Lance red-faced beside him and plunges into it, barely managing to stay on the beat. He’s got no idea how he’s playing these notes and he knows he missed one in there but they _did_ it, he and Lance were actually _together_ –

He drops his trumpet into his lap for a brief break while the trombones take over the melody, and whips his head to see Lance just as exhausted, eyes completely wide. Lance shakily mouths _What the fuck?_ And Keith gives a hysterical mini-laugh.

“Horns up you little shits, we’re not done yet!”

Both of them snap their trumpets up for the bridge. The rest of the freshman/sophomore trumpet line has been killing it, keeping up with the melody just fine. Keith suspects that the little one on the end is faking his playing but he’s fine with that, because they sound amazing. None of the other times they’ve attempted this song have sounded so good.

Shiro’s drumline leads them home, the whole band coming together on the final ear-shattering chorus. Pidge is conducting her arms off, keeping them in sync as they slow the tempo at the end. She keeps eye contact with the whole band as the flick of her wrists leads them down, and she wiggles her fingers for an extra cymbal crash as they bring it home.

When they finally finish, the cheer is rousing. Lance jumps up on his chair, trumpet in hand, and starts hollering. There’s literally nothing else for Keith to do but jump up there with him. Coran’s gone, it’s a beautiful day and they’re the greatest fucking marching band in California.

“Why are we _so_ good?” Lance says, chest puffed out. “What _inferior_ band got none of the talent that God gave directly to us? I feel sorry for them, honestly.”

“Pidge, when are you going on tour for angriest conductor?” Allura yells out, and they all laugh.

Pidge takes a surprisingly lady-like curtsy, her eyes sparkling. “I’ll see all of you at Carnegie Hall! We’re burning that bitch down!”

They cheer, and Keith is helpless but to look at Lance. When he turns, Lance is looking at him too.

“I’m so sorry about the party,” Keith says, the words falling so easily that had seemed impossible to voice ten minutes ago.

“Dude, me too, I was an ass,” Lance says. “God, what a shitshow.”

“I won’t steal your solo again,” Keith says, and means it.

Lance’s eyes are so open Keith feels like he can see to the core of him. “No, you saved the night,” Lance says with a little smile. “Way to be, cowboy.”

Keith’s face flames, and it teases a real smile out of Lance. Below them, Rolo and Nyma are glaring murder at Pidge, and they still bombed their first Voltron show and have a ton of work yet to do.

“Sit back down, we’re not done yet!” Pidge says, smacking the podium. “Crushing a song once doesn’t mean we’ve got it. We’re taking it from the top.”

And right now, absolutely none of it matters. Right now, Keith’s got this trumpet, and this music, and this band, and the sunshine outside. It’s more than enough.

 

* * *

 

 

“Higher education is bullshit,” Lance says.

“This isn’t higher education,” Shiro says. “Just so you know. This is the exact opposite of higher education.”

“Now everybody, just like we practiced!” The principal says into the mic. Lance raises his hands as lazily as he can, and Keith smiles beside him.

“We love Garrison, yes we do,” the whole school sings tonelessly. “Garrison High is just so cool. Let’s go Lions, beat the rest – Garrison High is just the best!”

“If I ate Chipotle and put my farts to a T-Pain style autotune, it would still be a better cheer than this one,” Lance says. Allura descends in a fit of giggles so strong that the principal turns to glare at her, and Lance gives him his sunniest smile.

It’s Lance’s least favorite day of the year – all-school spirit day. Why Garrison High insists on a full-day affair rather than just a pep rally like everyone else, he’ll never know. It’s honestly a trade-off for which part is the most lame. Is it the ‘inspirational’ speeches from bored faculty? The ‘special’ catered lunch, which is just their normal gross cafeteria fare? The poor, overheated mascot running around trying to rouse spirit while the whole school giggles about him looking like a lion furry? It’s a clusterfuck from start to finish, and Hunk generally takes as many pictures as he can so they can make memes. Pidge hasn’t even looked up from her phone the whole day. Allura and Keith are almost asleep, but Shiro, ever the Boy Scout, is valiantly still awake. A true soldier. Lance almost wants to salute. That would probably be allowed, actually.

“We’re going to break for just a moment so that we can all get some refreshing lemonade and snacks!” The principal says enthusiastically. “But remember to get your questions a-brewing, because after team-building exercises is faculty Q&A! Try to remember all your toughest study questions for the asking!”

“Why the hell are there so many lions?” Someone yells, and a good half of the school responds in unison,

“Don’t ask about the lions!”

“Fucking freshmen,” Lance mutters as they get up. “Still asking about the lions.”

“You ask about the lions,” Keith points out.

“I don’t ever expect to actually know,” Lance replies. “No natural curiosity anymore. This cat’s been killed enough.”

They wander over to the snack table. The only good thing about all-school spirit day is that it takes place outside on the football field; October in Long Beach is gorgeous, and Lance will take eight hours of propaganda for the chance to sit outside and close his eyes to feel the wind. After loading up on snacks, they plop down on the scratchy grass, feeling completely at home after years of marching on this same field. While everyone else eats, Pidge only sips at her lemonade, eyes still glued to her phone.

“Whatcha got there, Pidgey?” Lance says.

“Score I gotta have memorized for a performance with Cal State next week,” she replies.

Keith nods sympathetically, but Lance is a seasoned detective and knows to prod deeper. “Oh yeah? What instrument?”

“Double bass,” she answers without a beat, and shit, that was good. But she’s still not looking up, and at this point she’d normally at least want to tell them more about whatever obscure piece she’s working on. So he leans forward over his folded legs, propping his elbows on his knees.

“Yeah? So if I grab that phone, I’m not going to see some weird smutty Korrasami fanfiction?”

“No,” Pidge says instantly, “you won’t.”

Except her hands have tightened on the phone.

Lance darts in to tickle her side, making her squeal and flail, and in the chaos he snatches her phone and reads it out loud.

“’Asami leaned over the gear shift, black hair falling into Korra’s lap and her fingers following right behind it. ‘Baby, it’s about time you learned how to drive – ‘ Oh God it gets weird after that, Jesus Lord Pidge you are _trash_!”

Everyone else is laughing so hard they almost can’t breathe, and Hunk has dutifully recorded the entire thing for posterity. Pidge grabs her phone back, face ruby-red. “Women have sex, Lance! It’s perfectly natural and it’s fun and we do not need men’s useless penises to get off!”

“I never said there was anything wrong with it, just that you’re reading smut at a school-wide assembly, that’s the single trashiest thing I’ve ever heard and I _love_ you for it – “

“Fuck off!” Pidge says, throwing her empty lemonade cup at him to even louder laughter.

“Alright, everybody finish up your fresh lemonade!” The principal announces in the bullhorn. “Gather up in groups, two groups in a cornhole game! Time for team-building!”

“Does he actually know what team-building is?” Hunk asks, as they wander over to the cornhole on the other side of the field. “Because I don’t think cornhole is exactly right. Should probably be some…challenge course, or trust falls, or something. Anything but a game that drunk college kids play.”

“Hunk, trust fall!” Lance says, and flings himself dramatically into Hunk’s arms. Hunk catches him easily, because he’s a god.

“At least cornhole can’t be that difficult,” Allura says. “We write our own music, I’m sure we can figure out a game that involves putting bean bags in holes and is named after ‘corn.’”

Around the field, various school groups splinter off, everybody positioning themselves by a cornhole. The principal wanders around, subdiving and reassigning groups until he’s satisfied with the distribution. Lance is hardly paying attention, half-looking down the field as he contemplates the best way to bring out Keith’s inner competitive cornholer, when his eyes snag on a head of long blonde hair.

_Oh shit._

There’s movement. The principal is walking towards them. Lance’s heart claws to life, reasserting itself in his chest. The principal is herding them over to them, and he’s pointing, and –

“Oh shit,” he says out loud.

“What?” Shiro says.

“Lotor,” Lance hisses. “Lotor, and his whole stupid band, the principal is bringing them over here, they’re going to be our fucking _cornhole partners_.”

“No,” Allura says immediately, everyone craning over to look at them. But it’s clear as day, a disgruntled Lotor and his gang, shepherded straight towards Voltron by a beaming, clueless principal. Fuck, this is Lance’s literal nightmare.

“We’ve got a stray group over here!” The principal says, panting slightly under his tie and button-up as he deposits a scowling Lotor fifteen feet from them, right by the twin cornhole platform. “Looks like you guys have the perfect amount of players, the teams are almost even! Now hold on, where did I put that megaphone – “

He bustles off, and then they’re standing in the fall sunshine, staring at each other across the field. It’s all very _West Side Story_. All of Voltron has walked up, flanking Lance from behind.

Lance, for his part, just feels exhausted. And they’ve barely even started.

Lotor finally smiles. “Did we all enjoy the fresh-squeezed lemonade?”

“It comes in a powder and you know it,” Hunk replies. “You’re the worst.”

“Not my fault we’re placed together on this thrilling physical challenge.” Lotor gestures lazily. “Besides, it’s not all bad. Keith hasn’t gotten the chance to meet the rest of my band yet!”

Keith is hovering incredibly close to Lance during this encounter. If the timing wasn’t so terrible, Lance would be thrilled. Over the megaphone, the principal announces that they should start throwing their bags. Lance bends down, picks up the first bag. Across the way, Lotor does the same.

“This is Ezor,” he gestures to the girl on his right. “She’s my rhythm guitarist. She also plays the violin, did you know that? She’s quite talented.”

“Hi, Keith,” Ezor says, already waving her hand, long red ponytail falling over her shoulder like a waterfall. She grins and Lance thinks, once again, that her teeth must be pointed. “I’ve heard so much about you, it’s so nice to meet you!”

Keith – that beautiful bristly Doberman of a human being – doesn’t wave back. “Nice to meet you.”

Ezor sticks out her lip and gives a little whimper, sulking behind Lotor. Lance throws his bag with an unreasonable amount of anger, and it slides right off the platform.

“This is Zethrid,” he says, indicating the biggest girl. She’s an absolute monster, towering over Shiro, wearing Jordans and a ballcap, sneering down at Keith with her thick lips and pinprick eyes. “She’s on drums.”

“You’re cute,” she growls. Keith glares over at her. Lotor takes his turn with the bag; it hits right in the center and slides through the hole. Of course it does.

“This is Narti,” Lotor continues. “She plays bass. Don’t take it personally if she doesn’t introduce herself. She got a throat infection as a baby and can’t talk. It’s a shame for her, but I can’t help but think it’d be a blessing if it happened to some other people.”

His eyes flicker to Lance, there and gone, and a block of ice sinks into Lance’s stomach.

Narti says nothing, true to form, hood pulled up and over her head, mouth turned permanently into a frown. She’s wearing as much black as she ever did, back when Lance hung out with these guys all the time, and still has the one sign of personality he ever got out of her – a black cat pin that’s always on her breast.

“And this is Acxa. She’s my lead guitarist, my oldest friend, my greatest confidant. Like Shiro and Matt.” Lotor graces Shiro with his most supercilious smile. “Isn’t it nice to always have somebody in your corner?”

Acxa gives a curt nod. She and Keith are sizing each other up, and to be honest, the similarities are striking. Acxa is slim and pretty, short-cropped black hair and a well-formed mouth, nimble fingers and discerning eyes. When this was Lance’s crew, she was second only to Lotor in his mind; they used to drive around together in her absentee father’s black convertible, pouring vodka in their slushees as she told him everything. Now, she looks at him and the crow’s feet around her pretty eyes deepen.

“So what’s the name of this great band?” Keith asks. He’s managed to hit the uber bored tone that Lance wishes he could have around Lotor. Every time he opens his mouth around his ex, he just comes off squeaky, or sad, or tired.

“The Galra Empire!” Ezor cheers.

“That’s a dumb fucking name,” Keith deadpans. Pidge snorts.

“Better than ‘Voltron’? The fuck’s that even mean?” Zethrid says. She and Shiro have taken their turns with the bags; Shiro’s hit fair and square, but Zethrid’s landed dangerously close to Allura’s shoe.

“It’s the sound your ass hitting the bricks when we crush you at Rockfest,” Allura fires back.

Lotor turns to Shiro. “Are you going to stop this Mean Girls fight, Mr. Shirogane?”

“I don’t think this is a fight,” Shiro replies, crossing his arms over his chest so he looks extra beefy. “I think this is you being immature to hide how scared you are of us.”

Hunk’s taken the bag next, and he doesn’t even wait for anyone else, just overhands it so hard that the other platform rattles. Lance is pretty sure this isn’t in the rules of cornhole, and neither is the fight that is imminently about to happen. Just because they’re defending him. All of his friends are completely ready to throw down, right now on the football field in the sunshine, just because Lance got his heart broken two years ago, just because he couldn't deal with it like a normal person, just like a _child_ -

“Alright, _I’m_ putting a stop to this.” Lance finally finds his voice, and it rushes out of him like a tumbling landslide. “Go away, don’t talk to us, we don’t want to play these fucking games. We’ll see you at Rockfest and that is it. Have a fabulous fucking day.”

Without looking behind him, he turns and walks away.

(He wants to look, he wants so bad to look, if nobody follows him that’ll be so humiliating, please everybody walk away now - )

“Holy shit, Lance,” Keith says, jogging up beside him with the rest of the crew coming up behind, “that was badass.”

“I know, darling,” Lance says, birdsong trilling in his chest, “I know.”

“Principal, we’re going to the bathroom!” Allura calls behind her. “We’ll be back in a moment!”

They hole up in the band room and play _Oregon Trail_ until the end of the day, and is Lance hugs everyone for a little bit longer than usual when they say goodbye, nobody says a thing.

 

* * *

 

 

The window’s open in Keith’s room, fluttering the curtains as he sits as his desk, scratching through Chemistry homework. He’d love nothing more than to play his guitar, but he knows that this problem set is due soon, and as much as he never wants to leave high school he actually does want to graduate. The corkboard above his desk is full of sheet music, movie tickets, a well-loved picture of the six of them after late-night tacos that Allura had printed for each of them. Keith’s so protective of it that whenever he moves it around the corkboard, he makes sure to use the same hole for the pushpin each time so as not to puncture it again.

A knock comes on his door. “Yeah?”

Keith’s dad pokes his head in. “Homework?”

“Yeah, chem.”

“Feel like a break?” His dad holds up a DVD case. “Saw this at the Walmart today. ‘Blood Brothers.’ It's about the E Street Band.”

“ _Hell_ yeah,” Keith says, chemistry completely forgotten.

His dad grins. “You set up the TV, I’ll make popcorn.”

Keith takes the DVD and they briefly split up. The record player’s in a spot of honor in the living room now; when they’re cooking or lounging, they’ll stick something on – whatever looks good at the time. Earth, Wind and Fire, Whitney Houston, Simon and Garfunkel, Abbey Road. Bruce, always. Keith’s got his whole discography on his phone and listens to it whenever he’s walking around, lying in bed, whenever he takes the truck out. ‘Born to Run’ is his go-to album; those eight songs can cover almost every mood he has, can soothe or sate or stoke, whatever he needs it to do.

His dad comes out with a big bowl of popcorn and Keith’s got the DVD all cued up. They don’t talk as it starts up, but there’s nothing that needs to be said yet; the music’s doing all the talking, the familiar chords settling Keith, letting him feel free to relax against the couch. His dad is in sock feet, stretched out on the recliner sofa, completely boneless and lulled quiet. This man, who at the start of the year was a virtual stranger to Keith.

They don’t talk until a good thirty minutes in, when the movie shows a clip of a 1990’s concert in an arena, the E Street Band like madmen on stage. “I was there,” his dad says, gesturing with a handful of popcorn. “That was when the band had just gotten back together after Bruce put them on hiatus.”

“Oh yeah? How was it?” Keith asks.

“Awesome,” his dad replies. “Sick, honestly, the energy was amazing. We were so – I mean, I was so wild, we couldn’t keep it together.”

“Who’d you go with?” Keith asks, and the words are barely out of his mouth before he regrets them, because the answer is obvious in the exhaustion that shutters his dad’s eyes closed for a moment.

“Your mom.”

Keith swallows against the gut-punch of those words. “She liked Bruce?”

His dad shrugs, but then says, “Loved him” in such a helpless voice that Keith feels it in his bones. “Didn’t care as much as she got older, but when we first met, yeah. Obsessed.”

Keith doesn’t know anything about how his parents met; it was never a dinner table conversation, not that they had those to start with. He doesn’t know how old they were, doesn’t know how long they dated, doesn’t actually even know if he was planned or not. They never married, but they were the kind of long-term couple that he assumed would be together forever. He’s not ready to know tonight – the night’s too perfect for those kind of questions, and he doesn’t want to hurt right now – but he thinks eventually, soon, he might be ready to know. The scar tissue might be thick enough for one more cut.

“Clarence is killing this solo,” Keith says instead, and his dad takes the subject change gratefully.

“Oh yeah, look at that.” Clarence Clemons is currently wearing some garishly joyful orange suit, dancing with his saxophone. “He was the absolute man.”

“Was?”

“Yeah, he died a few years ago.”

“What?” Keith sits up straight, almost knocking the popcorn over. “Are you kidding?”

“No son, I wish I was.” His dad pauses the movie. “He had a stroke. He lived a good life, kiddo, even if it was cut short. Bands around the world paid tribute to him.”

Keith’s eyes are hot. He never even knew this guy. He can’t believe he’s actually tearing up over him.

“It’s okay, I cried when I heard too,” his dad said, and Keith cracks a wet smile, so damn grateful.

After that the movie is tinged with emotion; the air in the room heavy, emotions swirling like dust mites caught in a sunbeam. Keith’s struggling through the flood in his chest, thoughts about his mom and Clarence Clemons and his life and everything about how he thought this year was going to go and how it’s going instead, how he has a room with life and pictures of friends and someone to hang out with on lonely Friday nights, and something about himself that he might finally have a word for, might finally be ready to take grasp of after letting it float through his blood all these months, and he’s not ready to talk about his mom but he thinks he might be ready to talk about _this_ , and if he doesn’t do it now, in this perfect night, then he doesn’t know if he’ll ever do it.

“So,” he says, and his voice is cracking already, “um.”

“Yeah?” His dad says, cutting his eyes over, and Keith is infinitely thankful that he hasn’t paused the movie, that there’s still background noise to cover up the hammering of his heart.

“Before this year, I didn’t have a lot of friends.”

“Yeah, I know, kiddo.”

“I also didn’t have a lot of girlfriends.” None, is the actual answer. He doesn’t know where he’s going with this. If he tries to put a filter on the words they’ll get completely dammed up; he feels, frantically, like he’s got to say the very first words that touch his tongue, and fuck any logical progression.

“I saw that too,” his dad says, calmly. “Figured you were a late bloomer when it came to that stuff. Not a problem at all. Nothing to rush into, nothing to worry about.”

That’s what Keith thought too, thought he was so above it all for never being interested in girls, so much smarter than everybody else.

“Yeah, uh. I think that wasn’t really the problem.”

“Yeah?” His dad is still totally calm.

“I think the girl part might’ve been the problem.” Keith can’t equivocate now, can’t hedge out of this one. “The girls _were_ the problem, actually, I know that. I’m gay.”

_Fuck_. Oh _shit_.

“I’m gay,” he says, the words heavy, tangible, changing the air with their orange-scented boldness. _I’m gay,_ he thinks, gripping tight for the first time. _I’m gay._

His dad finally turns to face him, doesn’t pause the movie, lets Bruce keep talking in the background. His dark eyes are so, so gentle.

“Keith,” he says, slowly. “My boy. Can I give you a hug?”

Keith almost falls forward, and his dad wraps him in a hug so tight that his ribs fold in. Keith’s nose is smushed against his dad’s shirt, his unique rough smell of laundry detergent and black tea and a bit of oil. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to keep himself together.

“Did you know?” He asks desperately.

“Not in as many words. But I don’t care, Keith. You know that, right? I don’t care. I love you no matter what. I love that you could tell me this. I’m honored, Keith, I’m so honored.”

Alright fuck it, Keith’s crying, that ship’s sailed. Keith is a gay man and he’s crying. “You weren’t the one I was worried about.”

His dad pulls back, looking right at him, eyes wet and fierce. “Let’s get one thing straight, cause I think I know what you’re thinking. Your mom left because of her own reasons. It had nothing to do with you, or me, or anything either of us did wrong. She didn’t leave because she could tell you were gay and wanted nothing to do with you. She loved you, loves you, in her own way but she needs to be happy on her own and we need to be happy on our own, okay? And I couldn’t be happier with you. You did nothing wrong. We did nothing wrong.”

Keith hears the subtext there, hears the pain itching beneath his dad’s words, and wordlessly pulls him back into another hug. They hug and sway slightly as the opening chords of _Streets of Philadelphia_ play on the TV.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro calls for the next Voltron practice to be that Friday night at their old stalwart, the Holt’s house. Keith gets the text and takes a deep breath. He’s not worried, per se, just feeling a little…raw. It’s been a lot, since the party. Between meeting the Galra Empire for the first time, this tender, tenuous relationship he’s rebuilt with Lance, _coming out_ to his dad, that liquid new secret which he feels bubbling up but still hasn’t spoken out loud to anyone else…Keith feels his old introverted self rear back up. For once he’d really rather not go to Voltron practice, would rather wrap himself up in massive blankets and stay quiet.

So of course he puts on his helmet, straps his instruments to his back, and rides down to the Holt’s.

When he pulls up outside, he sticks his earbuds in and puts his Bruce Springsteen discography on shuffle, pumping the volume to drown out his heart. It’s really just to give him a few seconds of peace, a few seconds of chill before someone in his stupid, loud band inevitably drags him into their new drama.

Except, when he lets himself in and heads back to the recording studio, waves to Mrs. Holt in the TV room (“Call me Colleen, babe”) and scratches Bae Bae’s ears, that’s not what happens. He shoulders himself into the cramped studio, waves to everyone. They wave back, all setting up their instruments, and…nothing else. Keith thinks he can hear quiet conversation, but everyone’s doing their own thing. All of his prickly rancor dissipates instantly. He fucking loves these people.

They stay pretty quiet, because the task of setting up and positioning can be an intensive process. Shiro drops a tom on Hunk’s foot at one point, making his whole face go red and his voice strain as he waves off Shiro’s desperate attempts to help. Keith chuckles, pausing his music only to tune his guitar and trumpet. The odd one out is Lance, taking up his perennial perch on the amp, no instrument, just loosely holding a microphone between long, lazy fingers. He’s in loose jeans and a blue T-shirt and Keith thinks no painting in any museum could ever be so beautiful.

Keith turns up the volume when _Thunder Road_ comes on, because that song’s had him hooked since the first time he heard the harmonica on his dad’s stereo player. He bops along for a second, fiddling with dials on his amp, and stays totally tuned out until he feels a tentative finger on his shoulder.

It’s Allura, smiling at him, hair falling in a loose braid down her back. “What are you jamming to here?”

He offers her an earbud, and she tucks it in her ear and leans against the amp to listen. She lets her eyes slip closed as Keith watches her, curious. She starts to tap her foot.

She opens her eyes and takes Keith by the elbow. They do a funny shuffle over to her keyboard, both still attached by the earbud, making Keith huff a laugh. Pidge watches attentively as Allura sits down.

“Play it again?”

Keith starts it over again. She starts to pick out tentative chords, a few missteps before she finds the right key and her fingers pluck out the familiar tune. She circles her finger, _one more time_ , and Keith starts it again. This time she slots right in, smile playing on her lips, faltering a bit at the chorus but quickly getting the gist of the top hand.

“Shit,” Keith breathes, and she grins. “You like this song?”

“Absolutely,” she says. “It’s one of Coran’s favorites.” The tenderness in her voice makes him smile.

“Thunder Road?” Pidge says.

“Course.”

“Hell yeah, hold on – “ She heads over to the closet in the corner, tucking her entire tiny body inside to rummage around. In the meantime, Keith finds himself looking at Allura, still playing, slipped into the zone. There’s a sadness on her face, some haunting in her eyes, and Keith has the thought that they’re too busy worshiping this girl to really let her be human sometimes. She’s human now, just a girl in southern California. Keith resolves to do better, to let her be weak, to really get to know her. Some other time, though, because he thinks this could be the start of something amazing.

Pidge finally reemerges from the closet, triumphantly holding a harmonica. Lance gives a pop of a laugh. “Who even has harmonicas anymore?”

“I can’t hear you, peon,” Pidge says with an emphatically Italian air, and then puts the harmonica to her lips and proceeds to perfectly play the harmonica intro. It hooks in Keith’s belly just like the real one, the melancholy ache, the sound of an old scar on new land. He drops his earbuds and runs to his guitar, desperate to keep it going.

Shiro’s already tapping out an easy rhythm on his hi-hat, and it only takes Hunk another minute or so of Allura’s playing before he’s picked out a bassline, probably not at all what the song is but Keith couldn’t care less. Lance watches the proceedings, face torn between fondness and exasperation.

“I don’t know all the words,” he warns, bringing the mic up to his face.

Keith’s pulled up his own phone in a heartbeat, shoves it at Lance a minute later with the Googled lyrics in bold. “Please,” he says, and doesn’t fully know what he’s asking for.

Lance holds his eye for a moment, softness in his eyes, before he clears his throat in the mic and Keith’s heart leaps. “Screen door slams…Mary’s dress waves. Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays…”

This early in practice, before they’ve played too many songs, Lance’s voice is new and tender, not gritty and raw like it gets when he’s been at it for a few hours. It fits wonderfully with this song where it doesn’t with _Born to Run._ Fleetingly, Keith thinks that this means they really should be ending with _Born to Run,_ so that the set ends with Lance’s voice at its most gravelly, but the thought passes once Lance starts to get comfortable, starts to soar.

“Well I ain’t no hero, that’s understood – all the redemption I can offer, girl, is beneath this dirty hood. With a chance to make it good somehow, hey, what else can we do now – “

His voice builds, full and rich, eyes still glued to the lyrics but his mouth moving faster than his eyes. “Except roll back the window and let the wind blow back your hair! Well the night’s busting open, these two lanes can take us _any_ where! We got one last chance to make it real, to trade in these wings for some wheels – climb in back, heaven’s waiting on down the tracks!”

Pidge is entertaining herself with a tambourine for lack of a sax part, and Keith and Allura are doing the lion’s share of the actual music, but it’s the same feeling as that first time Keith heard this band play Fall Out Boy in the music studio. They’re in a studio with the windows shut but Keith could swear for a minute that they’re actually out on the road, like there’s actually wind in his hair. Because they can _do_ that; music can do that, and they are makers of music. They're the conduit for this incredible power.

“Oh oh, come take my hand – we’re riding out tonight to case the promised land!” Lance finally looks up for a second, locks burning blue eyes on Keith and grins like a little boy. “Oh oh oh, thunder road – lying out there like a killer in the sun, hey I know it’s late, we can make it if we run – “

Keith improvs on the guitar part, his fingers already familiar with the chords, letting himself go wild and feel the metal strings bite into his calluses as he adds new riffs. Allura flashes him a grin, hammering on the piano, Hunk is grooving, they’re flying, they’re on top of the world, there’s nothing left in the world but sticks and keys and words.

“Sit tight, take hold – thunder road!”

For a wild moment, Keith thinks he could roar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there! If you have read this, I would like to say a deep thank you, because PVB is a trash monster and took a full two months to get this chapter up. Real life was wild and all of the things happened and you know how it goes. So if you're here, then thank you, you're amazing and I'm maybe in love with you.
> 
> Couple of links for tonight! [This](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wYpPd6vuHJw) is the arrangement of 'Carry On My Wayward Son' that I used. This song kicked the ass of my college band, so for a high school band this is a monster.
> 
> And [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5kXnq5IjdU) is a link to a live version of 'Thunder Road' performed by Bruce Springsteen in 1975. Absolutely gorgeous.
> 
> 'Blood Brothers' is a real movie that I watched with my dad many years ago; I didn't have time to rewatch it so the plot points might be fuzzy, but it's wonderful and you should all check it out!
> 
> Lyrics for the chapter from 'The Rising' by you know who at this point.
> 
> Here's the deal; there are three chapters left on this godforsaken story. I am going to finish this story if it kills me and that is a promise. So come back next time for some more Pidge musicality and the first introduction of Keith's dad to the rest of Voltron. Trust PVB; she will be back, hopefully sooner than this time. I love you, let me know what you thought!


	11. The Risk and the Pain

**Chapter Eleven: The Risk and the Pain**

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #thisissosad #voltronplayborntorun**

**Lance** : Alright bishes everyone ready for pidgey’s concert this friday??

 **Lance** : 7 pm at the Kramer music hall at cal state long beach!!

 **Lance** : IT’S ON LIKE DONKEY KONG

 **Allura** : Coran and I will be there in our finest!!

 **Keith** : Is there a dress code?

 **Hunk** : Stripper heels and tassels

 **Pidge** : Trench coats with nothing underneath

 **Lance** : Cowboy boots and a massive belt buckle

 **Allura** : Renaissance fair finery

 **Shiro** : It’s business casual Keith

 **Shiro** : Don’t listen to them

 **Lance** : One should just stop listening to this chat overall

 **Lance** : It has been proven to contribute nothing to society

 **Lance** : except BE HONEST how many of you forgot about the concert before I reminded you here??

 **Hunk** : *hand raised emoji*

 **Pidge** : ouch.

 **Hunk** : I WOULD NEVER MISS IT!!! IT’S ON MY FAMILY CALENDAR,I JUST FORGOT

 **Hunk** : THAT’S WHAT I HAVE LANCE FOR ANYWAY

 **Pidge** : I must admit having Lance as a hype man is wonderful

 **Pidge** : do you have a flava-flav clock?? Can we get you a diamond studded mic?

 **Keith** : I’m sure I’ve got a big belt buckle somewhere that we can put on a chain

 **Lance** : WAS THAT TEXAS HUMOR

 **Lance** : SAY SOMETHING ELSE TEXAS

 **Keith** : That’s not how language works

 **Hunk** : SAY SOMETHING TEXAS PLEASSSEEEE

 **Keith** : cows

 **Lance** : TEXAS FOREVER

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 **Hunk** : oh my god

 **Allura** : How many Friday Night Lights gifs do you have on deck?

*gif sent*

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 **Allura** : That wasn’t a challenge Lance!

*gif sent*

 **Shiro** : …was that Friday Night Lights? I’ve never seen it.

 **Pidge** : daaaaAAAAAD

 **Lance** : baby you know damn well that wasn’t from Friday night lights

 **Shiro** : I know

 **Shiro** : I was hoping it was innocent

 **Hunk** : You sweet summer child

 

* * *

 

 

Pidge had to miss the football game for the concert, which was disconcerting by itself; Coran seemed a little lost without his right-hand man, looking her way for suggestions on songs or to yell at a misbehaving section only to find an empty space in the sax section. At this point the Marching Lions had the whole flipbook down; football games were essentially large hang-outs with occasional intervals for playing music. Keith and Lance took a trip down to the drumline after half-time and spent twenty minutes teaching them the conga part to _Africa_ by Toto until Coran got too annoyed and banished them back to their own section. Keith met up with his dad after the game to grab his suit for the concert; his dad gave him a hug and said, “You were amazing to watch.” Keith was pretty sure he didn’t mean the trumpet playing.

After the Marching Lions lost again (they updated Pidge in the group chat that her bet was still on to which she replied with a string of muscle and crown emojis), Coran used his teacher keys for evil and unlocked the locker rooms so they could shower. Lance stripped his shirt with no hesitance and claimed the first shower stall. Keith’s heart jumped up and his blood rushed south, and he was so worried about violating Lance’s privacy with his stupid gay crush that he physically held his t-shirt over his eyes and kept his eyes locked firmly on the ground all throughout the shower until he could verify that Lance was wearing pants again.

For a group of degenerate band geeks, they clean up really nicely; the men all wear various JC Penney suits, having Coran help them with their ties, toes pinching their barely-worn dress shoes. Allura shows everyone up, wearing an orchid cocktail dress that wouldn’t look half as good on a college sorority sister as it does on her. She makes them all take a selfie in the golden light, just on the cusp of sunset, everyone squinting at her camera and beaming. Keith rests a hand on Hunk’s shoulder and leans further into the shot with a smile.

The classiness of their outfits is ruined by them piling into their chariots for the night: Hunk’s trusty yellow sedan and Coran’s weirdly futuristic white Camaro. Coran’s car would be cool if it weren’t for the baby blue racing stripe and collection of dorky stickers on the bumper. In the end, only Shiro is persuaded to join Coran and Allura in the weird car; Keith and Lance choose to ride down with Hunk. Keith tries and fails to not read into how many times he and Lance have paired up throughout the night.

The Cal State Long Beach Music Department Fall Showcase is not exactly the Grammys; there’s plenty of parking, and they easily spot the Holts once they’re in the lobby of the music hall. Mrs. Holt hugs everybody with lots of cheek kisses, Mr. Holt instantly drags Coran into a conversation about music that’s so high-level nerdy that Keith only recognizes one word out of five, and Matt has been bribed into wearing actual pants and a shirt with a collar (though he’s still wearing Chacos, in true So Cal fashion). They all grab brochures and scan it for Pidge’s name.

“She’s listed as a soloist on the last song,” Mrs. Holt tells them, pride shining through her voice.

They all lean over and scan the page. _Soloist – Katie Holt, harp_

“Harp?” Lance says. “She’s playing the harp?”

“Oh, I bet she hates that,” Hunk says with a chuckle. “That’s the girliest, prissiest instrument ever.”

“Practices have been…a bit tense,” Mr. Holt admits. “But I think she appreciates the technicality of it.”

“What’s she playing for the other three pieces?” Shiro asks, flicking through the rest of the brochure. “It doesn’t say.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Coran says with a bright grin. “It’ll be a musical adventure!”

“My favorite type of adventure,” Keith deadpans, and it teases a laugh out of the entire group. Lance turns around to grin at him as they enter the viewing hall, and insistently pats the seat next to him until Keith sits down, blush burning up his cheeks.

When the program starts, it’s a bit of a challenge to see Pidge at first; in a sea of black, finding a four-foot-ten girl is nearly impossible. It’s Allura who finally spots her, tucked in with the violins and wearing a black suit. Keith has to admit that he knows pretty much nothing about classical music, so he figured this night was going to be a struggle to stay awake.

Thirty seconds into Brahms, Lance leans over in the darkened theater and whispers,

“How interested are you in the…” He looks down at his brochure. “ _Tragic Overture_?”

“Not,” Keith replies.

“Me neither. Wanna look at memes?”

Keith nods furiously. Lance whips out his phone, turns the brightness down, and navigates to a sub-folder labelled ‘god-tier garbage.’

“Leggo,” he says, grinning over the slightly-crooked knot of his blue tie.

 _I think I love you,_ Keith thinks, _because I don’t know any other word for the way you make me feel._

So they pass the first two songs in a state of suppressed snickers at Lance’s deep catalog of memes. Keith feels bad, he does, they both make sure to pick their heads up and pay occasional attention, watching Pidge and the very talented Cal State Long Beach Orchestra play very difficult songs. In Keith’s defense, Pidge herself looks pretty bored, first at violin and then at baritone, though for her it’s probably boredom at the simplicity of the music and not for lack of interest. Hunk’s actually asleep for some of it, though he wakes himself up valiantly.

Everyone pays attention and Lance puts away his phone when it’s the third song and time for Pidge’s solo. Two guys in black t-shirts wheel out the harp, which is placed in a cleared-out space right next to the conductor. Pidge comes out from the back and sits down, easing the harp in between her legs and against her shoulder. Keith thinks, for a wild second, that it’s too big for her.

“Harp Cadenza from _Swan Lake_ ,” Lance whispers, reading off the program. “This is gonna be amazing.”

It starts with just the woodwinds before Pidge comes in, playing beautiful runs on the harp. Her tiny fingers are perfectly suited to the tiny strings, and from what Keith can see of her face it’s furrowed in concentration. Everyone else drops off and it’s just her, playing a frothy, delicate piece. The conductor doesn’t even keep time, just holds his baton still at his chest and lets her play. Keith feels himself go strangely emotional watching her, watching the precision and power in her playing; he doesn’t know how he wound up with such cool friends and such disparate talents, that they’re going to do such great things and he’s so excited to watch them. It’s a totally dorky emotion that makes him blush even though no one can hear his thoughts.

The full orchestra comes in after a while and the piece is beautiful, even when Pidge isn’t soloing anymore. When they finish Keith instinctively wants to jump up and holler like they do when they finish a song in marching band, but he stays still and claps like everyone else. Coran sneaks in one whistle which makes everyone turn to glare at them, but it’s worth it for the incipient smile on Pidge’s face as she makes her way back into the orchestra.

They play two more songs and then there’s a final bow. The musical director comes out to say a few words, a couple of thanks to the sponsors and to everyone for coming, and Pidge gets a direct shout-out and another round of applause as “the high school prodigy who we are delighted to play with, and hope to play with again once she’s old enough to drive!” It gets a laugh from the crowd but Pidge’s face is stormy when she stands to accept the applause. Keith is almost proud. _Angry, surly little gremlin._

They all mill around in the foyer until the musicians finally come out. Hunk spots her first and starts cheering, and Pidge enters with a sheepish smile.

“You did wonderfully, sweetheart,” Mrs. Holt says, folding her daughter in a hug. Pidge nuzzles closer and wraps her hands around her mom’s waist. “Amazing, I’m so proud of you.”

“Thanks, Mom,” she says, voice muffled.

“When are we putting a harp in Voltron?” Lance wonders as Pidge hugs her dad. “That feels like something we should do. How could Lotor ever compete with a fuu _uudging_ harp?”

“Great save,” Keith mutters under his breath. Lance elbows him.

“Where are we putting the harp on stage, Lance?” Shiro asks.

“We aren’t, we’re putting it in the air. Raised stage. One Direction did it on their tour, they floated above the audience like ethereal angels.”

“I don’t even know how you were allowed in this esteemed musical hall,” Hunk sighs.

“Cause I wanted him here,” Pidge chirps. She darts forward to hug Lance, wrapping her arms around his waist and squeezing like a sloth. “Cause he never forgets my concerts.”

He squeezes her back, just as hard. “And I will never forget, my salty little Pidgeotto. You were a revelation up there, boo.”

She closes her eyes and squeezes harder.

If there ever comes a day when Keith isn’t in love with this boy, then just pull the plug, it's not him, he's been replaced by a robot.

 

* * *

 

 

The day starts innocuously enough; Keith parks his motorcycle and heads over to their pre-school hangout underneath the lions. He gives a pat to Red and sees that everyone’s got long faces, clicking away at their phones instead of laughing and talking shit like they normally do.

“What’s up?” He asks.

“We can’t find a place for Voltron practice tonight,” Lance says. “My parents are doing some big remodel so the garage is totally full of shit, the practice room at Pidge’s flooded from their storm drain, and Hunk’s parents are leaving early tomorrow for a conference so they are going to bed early and can’t handle all the noise.”

“Damn,” Keith says, because what are the odds? “Okay, that happens, let’s just have it another night.”

“I’ve got tons of AP practice tests this week,” Allura says sadly. “This is the only night that I’m really free.”

“It’s alright,” Shiro says, trying valiantly to rouse the spirit of their depressed crew. “We’ll have practice next week, it’s not a big deal.”

Except that it kind of is a big deal, and Keith knows this. There’s not a formal audition process for Rockfest, but they do have to submit a video of them performing their full set list to be approved by the school board. They’re close but they’re not 100% there yet, and there is definitely a chance that if the school board doesn’t like their set that they could deny them a performance spot. This week was going to be the time to really get into it, really hammer down their songs and fix all the little tweaks that are keeping them from kicking ass the way they are perfectly capable of doing.

Shiro’s is too small, Allura’s is too far away…there’s a final option here that nobody’s floated, and Keith knows they’re just trying to respect his space, allow him this last measure of privacy, the dredges of his once-powerful air of mystery that kept him cool all throughout band camp. Keith’s hesitant to offer; he feels a strange attachment to this last remnant of his old, lonely existence, to the privacy which was originally granted to him out of isolation but that he’s grown to love. He feels like he’s about to crack through a cocoon, spread weak and sticky wings to the light for the very first time, and he’s assuredly convinced they can’t bear the weight.

But then he looks out at his band – his tribe – and the decision is clear.

“Hold on,” he says, and then turns away and pulls out his phone.

“Keith?” His dad says when he picks up. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine.”

“Forget something at home? I can come by and bring it.”

“No, it’s not that. I, uh. Actually. Can my band – Voltron – can we host practice at our house tonight?”

“Oh,” his dad says, with no small amount of surprise in his voice.

“Well everyone’s house is unavailable, Pidge’s house is flooded and Hunk’s parents need to go to bed and Lance’s garage is full and we’ve got a couple of plug-ins in the garage that we could use for the amps. And we would just – “

“Keith, it’s fine,” his dad says. “Of course your friends can come over and practice at our house.”

“Really?” The panic in Keith’s chest rushes away like waves out to sea. He’s not sure why he ever thought his dad would say no.

“Yeah, of course. I’ll order pizza. Make sure it’s all nice and clean – “

“God, Dad, no, don’t be embarrassing.”

“I have to feed you, don’t I?”

“No – “

“Yes, I do, that wasn’t up for discussion. I’ll order pizza. Just keep me posted. I’ll run a vacuum through it.”

“Jesus Christ, Dad, no – “

“Have a great day!”

His dad hangs up and Keith stares at the phone in disbelief. Why did his dad sound like he’d just been invited to a birthday party by the coolest kid in preschool?

He comes back to the group, who have been watching him without even bothering to hide their curiosity. “So we can have practice at my house tonight,” Keith says quickly, before he loses his nerve. “If you guys want to.”

“Seriously? Keith oh my God, you are the hero of the night, oh my God,” Hunk gushes.

“I’m so down, we have been invited into the secret sanctum,” Pidge says with a grin.

Keith can’t help it – the only person who’s reaction he’s really looking for is Lance.

He’s got his head ducked slightly, looking up at Keith through his eyelashes, one leg kicked up on the bench like an ungainly heron. He just smiles, warm and bright.

Maybe Keith’s wings are stronger than he thought.

 

* * *

 

 

Last year, Lance’s parents got him and his sister Beyoncé tickets for their birthdays. He cried when he found out. He’s still more excited to see Keith’s house for the first time.

(That’s a lie, Beyoncé still edges out. Lance sends up a silent prayer that she forgive his heretical thoughts. _Still my main girl, B._ )

But he is very, very excited. Keith is totally on edge all day, fidgeting in all of his classes, and Lance is well aware that he doesn’t have people over that often and this is probably triggering a lot of fight-or-flight in his antisocial little heart. For his part, Lance tries to tone down on the Lance-ness; be soft and soothing instead of loud and crazy, try to say with soft smiles and nice touches that it’s okay, they’re not gonna judge him, they’re just happy to hang out with him. After school they go to retrieve their instruments from their storage locker in the band room in the nick of time before orchestra arrives. Keith gives them an address in a suburban neighborhood and then speeds off on his motorcycle, probably to psych himself up one last time. Lance, Hunk and Pidge ride together and speculate about what Keith’s house is like (“Some kind of emo man-cave dedicated to the musical stylings of My Chemical Romance,” Hunk guesses; “Wallpapered entirely in fingerless gloves and red crop-top leather jackets, hundreds of them,” Pidge adds.)

The house is neither; it’s a handsome ranch house in a totally pedestrian suburban neighborhood. Keith’s motorcycle sits next to a shiny, massive truck with double wheels on the back, which sits in total contrast to all the minivans and sedans lining the rest of the street. Allura and Shiro pull up in Allura’s shiny white car, and before anyone can even make it to the front door Keith arrives, looking horribly nervous in a black t-shirt and black sock feet.

“Hey,” he says, uselessly.

“Howdy,” Lance calls, opening the truck to haul out his stuff. “Where should we put the tools for musical fusion?”

“Garage,” Keith says, and walks across to open the garage door with a press to a fancy button (Lance’s garage still has to be hauled open after his sister Veronica broke the automatic keypad and his parents have been too lazy to replace it). There’s barely anything inside when he flips on the lights, just a lawnmower and a wall of tools and something underneath a black cloth cover, something which has a very familiar shape.

“Is that another motorcycle?” Lance marvels as he hefts an amp inside.

“Yeah, it’s my dad’s. He got me into motorcycles.”

“Ooh, can I see?” Lance is already reaching for the cover.

“It’s just a motorcycle – “

Lance whips it off, unleashing a flurry of dust into the still garage, and goggles openly at the fucking _monster_ motorcycle underneath. It makes Keith’s red motorcycle look like a kid’s toy.

“This thing is Cerberus,” Lance says, staring at the shiny black chrome, the _Harley-Davidson_ scrawled lazily across the side. “This is one of the beasts that will be unveiled when the seven seals of the apocalypse are broken.”

“Your Catholic knowledge really comes out at the weirdest moments,” Hunk observes.

“He hasn’t driven it in years,” Keith says, coming up. He puts a gentle hand on the seat, the action at odds with his harsh words. “He was the one who taught me how to ride.”

“Where is Papa Keith? Where is Mr. Texas? I want to meet him!”

“We’re here to practice, Lance – “

“Oh, like we don’t spend the first half hour of every practice schmoozing with parents! Come on, please, we’ll be normal for once!”

“Don’t promise that,” Allura says with a laugh.

“No, we need to practice,” Keith says, failing to read the room and see how nobody has set up their instrument yet, just standing around looking interestingly at Keith’s garage. This is the closest they’ve come to learning anything about Keith’s home life and he’s not letting them past the fucking garage.

Lance takes a deep breath. _Meet him where he’s at. This is hard for him._

“No, that’s cool,” he says instead. “Yeah, we can practice. We have a rock show coming up, after all! We need to melt faces!”

The rest of Voltron shrugs and finally starts setting up instruments and amps. Keith’s shoulders drop back down from around his ears, and he covers the behemoth black motorcycle with the cloth again. They decide, after quite a bit of shouting and conferring, to run through the set list in its final iteration – _Sorry Not Sorry, What’s My Age Again,_ and ending with _Born to Run_. They set up marching band instruments, and Lance gets back in the zone. This is his song, this is his baby. He needs to focus up, stop worrying about Keith’s father and all the little things about him he could learn inside the house. He’s inside the garage, that’s more than he ever thought.

They run it through exactly one time – just enough time for Lance’s voice to warm up – when the door opens and Lance’s heart leaps up with hope.

“Sorry, don’t mean to interrupt!”

A tall, square-jawed man with scruff and a massive scar through his right eyebrow steps into the room, giving an awkward wave with his hand. Lance shoots a quick glance back at Voltron and sees everyone watching his approach with unbridled glee, except for Keith, who’s face is doing its best impression of a cherry tomato.

“Are you Keith’s dad?” Lance says.

“Yeah, that’s me,” he says genially. “I’m Rick, great to meet you.”

“I’m Lance,” he says, bounding forward with his hand outstretched. “In the words of Tony the Tiger, it is _grrrrrreat_ to meet you.”

Rick laughs. Keith looks like he wants to die.

Rick goes around the room, introducing himself to the whole of Voltron. Lance watches him, the way that his tough exterior – the scary scar, the balls-out truck and motorcycle – contrasts with his awkward walk and his puppy-like excitement at meeting them. _Like father, like son,_ Lance thinks, still thinking of Keith rolling up in his motorcycle to band camp, making them all thing he was the hardest kid in the joint. He’s a marshmallow wrapped in barbed wire.

“Well, I’m no good at cooking, so I was gonna order some pizza for you guys,” he says, clapping his hands together. “How’s that sound? Any requests?”

“Dad – “ Keith says.

“Pizza would be great,” Shiro says. “Whatever you get will be awesome.”

“No, come on, you guys must have some favorites! Keith likes onions on his – “

See, Lance didn’t even know that. Coming here was the best thing ever.

“I do like meat lover’s,” Hunk speaks up.

“I go for a veggie supreme,” Allura says.

“I second the meat lover’s,” Shiro says.

“I’ll eat whatever,” Lance says with a shrug, and Pidge nods in agreement.

“Meat lover’s, veggie supreme, one with onions,” Rick finishes. “Got it. I’ll put in the order!”

“Dad, can you just _go_?” Keith says through gritted teeth.

Rick raises his hands in surrender. “I’m going, I’m going. Be back down with the pies!”

“Thanks, Rick!” Pidge calls, and they all chorus the same. This appears to be Keith’s worst nightmare, all of his friends calling his father by his first name.

Once the door has closed, Allura wastes no time in gushing, “Your dad is _so_ sweet, Keith. I just love him.”

“He’s a dork,” Keith says with a roll of his eyes.

“No one with a motorcycle that big could be considered a dork,” Hunk points out.

Keith sighs, picks up his trumpet. “I’m glad you guys like him. Wanna actually play this song?”

“Ew, music nerd alert,” Lance says, and it teases a smile out of Keith before Shiro counts them off.

 

* * *

 

 

About three run-throughs later, the two Mountain Dews that Lance consumed at lunch to hype him up for his Chemistry test have come back to haunt him, and he excuses himself to find the bathroom. He genuinely has to go, though it is a very lovely pretext to snoop a little bit, try to find some baby pictures of Keith hung up in a hallway somewhere. He’s praying for the _chubbiest_ of cheeks.

He’s only a few steps into the house whenever he sees Rick, sitting at the dining table typing on a computer. He looks up and smiles.

“Hey, Lance.”

“Hey, sorry, I was just looking for the bathroom?”

“Yeah, no problems, second door on the left.”

It’s the guest bathroom, to Lance’s great dismay; totally impersonal, with blue and white towels and lemon verbena scented pump soap. He desperately wanted to go in Keith’s bathroom, snoop around in his medicine cabinet, find some pore strips and old retainers. He can’t articulate why he wants to know Keith so badly, what this obsession is with looking in all the tucked-away little corners of this kid. He just wants to let him know that someone cares, that he doesn’t need to worry about keeping everything inside for fear that they’ll call him a freak. They would never; Lance would never.

With Rick sitting right outside Lance figures it would be pretty bad form to go snooping around in his son’s room, so with a sad sigh at lost opportunity he heads back out into the dining room. The whole house is pretty spartan; Lance’s house is a disaster zone and he knows that, six kids each with an explosive personality, but this house is bare even compared to the smaller, less-Latinx houses he’s been to. There are no pictures, no art, no knick-knacks, no clutter or tchotchkes. They’ve been living in Long Beach for almost four months now; he’d think by this point they’d have unpacked at least a bit. Except he can’t see any moving boxes, so maybe this _is_ unpacked for them.

Rick looks up when he comes back inside. “You didn’t fall in?”

“Ha! No, I’m, uh, good. You’ve got a nice place,” Lance says, parroting his parents whenever they go over to friend’s houses.

“Thanks. We’re still settling in, but I think Long Beach is a fantastic town. I know Keith loves it.”

“Really?”

“Absolutely,” Rick says, fully taking his hands off the keyboard, looking at Lance with an older, grayer version of Keith’s piercing eyes. “This is the happiest he’s been in years.”

“Oh.” This is Keith _happy_? And for the first time in _years_? What must this kid’s life have been like everywhere else –

Rick smiles ruefully, drops his head and runs a hand through his hair. “Keith has a bit of a hard time making friends,” he says quietly. “You must’ve noticed that. He’s always had trouble connecting with people.”

Lance nods.

“So after it all happened…I’m sure he’s told you about the divorce, I hope he’s told you about the divorce. But I was so worried about him. Another mark on him, another obstacle to social interaction.

“But this year has been night and day. He’s coming home smiling, he’s talking about his day, he’s opening up to me, he’s going out to parties and acting like a teenager instead of an adult…I wasn’t sure it was going to happen for him. I was so worried he was going to carry this all the way through his life, that he’d miss out on so many formative, necessary experiences because of me and his mother’s terrible decisions.”

Lance gets the horribly uncomfortable feeling from being confided to about issues that are far above his emotional maturity level. But he’s pretty sure that Rick’s only telling him this because he can’t talk to anyone else about it; it’s all coming out like it’s been eating at him for years and he’s finally gotten a chance to drain the abscess. He’s looking off in the middle distance, hands clenched tight on top of the table. But he shakes it off, focuses back on Lance with a smile heavy with meaning.

“So I guess what I’m saying is thank you,” he says, and Lance’s heart skips. “Thanks for being friends with him, thanks for giving him such a good year. All of you in the band. He’d kill me if he knew I said that, but I just want to say…whatever made you want to be friends with my son, thank you for following that feeling. It means the world to me.”

Lance could cry, here in this barren kitchen with his friends talking just on the other side of the door. He swallows; his throat feels like there’s a pineapple lodged inside. “Your son,” he starts, and has to clear his throat. “He’s amazing. He’s…the band wouldn’t be the same without him. We love him.”

He almost thinks it, starts it in his head, _I love h-_ , cuts himself off.

Rick grins, gives a suspiciously wet cough in his elbow. “Good. Good. That’s…that’s great.”

The ring of the doorbell saves them from their misery, and Rick jumps up. “Awesome, pies are here! Wanna call up the gang?”

“Yeah, love to,” Lance says, and he goes to the garage to yell at Voltron that their dinner is here, come and get it.

They run into the dining room like no one’s eaten in years, all talking over each other and grabbing slices right off the tray, not even waiting for the plates which Rick is setting out. Keith shoots his father and Lance a look, but Lance just smiles through a mouthful of cheese. Rick gets an arm around his son’s shoulders, gives him a quick kiss to his head. Keith leans in for a moment, presses himself to his father’s side before extricating himself for some soda. Lance would’ve missed the whole exchange if he wasn’t watching Keith like a hawk.

Because he’s just realized he has a crush in the most pathetic of ways. Listening to Keith’s dad thank him just for being friends with his son, Lance wanted to say so much more. _Your son has made this the best year I’ve ever had and we’re barely in November. Your son made me feel good about myself after I thought I would never like myself again. Your son is so talented, and so funny, and so sweet, and I’d be devastated if he moved away at the end of the year. I want to take your son to prom, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t think of me that way._

“Lance, you okay?” Allura asks.

Lance shakes himself out, manages a smile.

“Always, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know your updating schedule is whacked when you celebrate getting a chapter out in a month and a half instead of two months. I'll take my victories when I can get them though. 
> 
> Good news is we are down to the final two chapters (!!); bad news, those final two chapters are monsters and it will probably take me a good bit to get those out. So please continue to be your awesome selves and be patient with me as I struggle through this monster. Your comments (even the weird ones) are my bread and butter. I stan all of you.
> 
> If you would like to watch the harp cadenza from Swan Lake that Pidge plays, it is [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hc7USkQFbQU).
> 
> Next chapter: the build up to Rockfest/Winter Formal and the end of football season for the Marching Lions! 
> 
> Lyrics from "Human Touch" by Bruce MotherFucking Springsteen.


	12. The Fire I Breathe

“Well, Coran,” Pidge says, leaning back, hands propped up on the bench behind her, “last marching game of the season.”

“That is correct, Number Five,” Coran replies.

“And the Fighting Lions are down 21-0.”

“That is the current score, yes.”

“It would appear that at the end of this game, our bet will be completed, and you will be telling me about your criminal past.” Her glasses flash, giant Shako feather doing nothing to make her look less like a mad genius.

“It’s only the first half!” Coran replies. “Much time left to turn it around, my dear. I hope you brought your dancing shoes.”

“I am always wearing my dancing shoes,” she says seriously, and Allura next to her cracks up, holding a hand over her mouth.

Keith, back in the trumpets, grins, tilting his head back to catch the lights. The November wind is chill, making him glad for his dorky white gloves. The energy in the air is thick with preemptive nostalgia, bittersweet and sentimental. For the last football game, all the seniors from football, band and cheer got to go out on the field and get honored before the game, and Keith nearly teared up watching Shiro and Allura out there waving at the crowd (Coran had none of the same reservations about crying in public, and spent most of the ceremony thumbing tears from under his eyes). He can’t think of the marching band, of _Voltron_ , without them – without Shiro’s stolid leadership, without his calm presence and his welcoming energy, without Allura’s fire and passion and genius, without her sassy humor and carefree joy. He can’t even begin to think about finding another drummer or flautist, about _replacing_ them. They’ve still got a whole game, a whole year together, and Keith is already mourning their loss.

Lance notices, because he notices everything. “It’s okay,” he says, putting a comfortable arm on the back of Keith’s neck, rubbing the skin above the collar of his jacket. “It’s okay, cowboy. They’ll be around, they’ll be back. Voltron will go on. It’s the circle of life, you know, like Simba and Mufasa. We’re still here, it’s okay.”

Keith nods, trying not to cry. Pidge looks wobbly down with the saxes, her big eyes child-like behind her glasses with her lip set firmly like she’s forcing it not to shake. Fuck, Pidge is going to be _alone_ once the rest of them graduate, what is she going to do by herself, what are any of them going to do when they all graduate –

“Keith!”

He turns to see Lance looking at him hotly. “Come on,” he says, “you’re okay, right? We’re just gonna play some songs, we’ve still got a whole six months left. We’re okay, you’re okay.”

Keith forces himself to take a deep breath. Presses the keys of his trumpet, feels the incandescent heat of the lights on the turf.

He smiles at Lance, and it’s all they need.

Coran calls 13, _Pretty Fly for a White Guy_ , and hollers at Pidge when she spends too long berating the Marching Lions for a very good field play. Keith pulls up his music, chuckles to himself when he realizes he barely needs it, he has most of their book memorized by now. He screams along with Lance, puts his whole lungs into “Uh-huh! Uh-huh!” He knows to wait for the cowbell solo and scream afterwards. He knows that Coran calls Pidge ‘Number Five’ because last year he organized the five tenor saxes by height and she was the shortest; he knows that Coran is his first name, not his last, and that his whole name is Coran Hieronymus Wimbleton Smythe and so for obvious reasons he usually goes by a mononym. He knows the dance to _Apache_ and he knows how to keep his chops up for all of _Carry On_ and he knows what it’s like to be needed, how good it feels when Coran yells, “Lance and Keith, you okay to take the counterpoint on _You Can Call Me Al_?”

“We got this,” Lance yells, and Keith grins.

“Guess we both turned out to be trumpet section leader after all,” he says under his breath, and Lance turns to him, a half-grin caught on his mouth that spreads wider and wider.

“I totally forgot about that,” he says with a disbelieving laugh. “Oh my God. Yeah, guess we do make a pretty good team, huh?”

“Gentlemen!” Coran yells. “Horns up!”

Their counterpoint together is clear and proud.

The first half winds to a close, and everyone gathers up their instruments to go down for the field show. Keith sticks to Lance like a burr, dogging his steps, and Lance gives him a weird look as he goes through his usual pre-show bullshitting, teasing everyone and joking around with Hunk while they wait to get in formation. Keith knows he’s being ridiculous but he can’t stop it; everything about tonight is imbued with so much emotion, so many memories. He wants to rewind, yell at past Keith to _stop thinking of football games as shit to get through, stop wishing that they would go faster, why didn’t you like this_? Which is dumb, because Keith’s never liked marching all that much, and here he is hoping that this final field show will last forever. Like he’ll get to play Queen with these people, on this field, in this town, for the rest of this life.

He catches eyes with Allura, who’s looking at the field with a similar pensive expression. He finally extracts himself from Lance to stand beside her. She looks over to him, eyes surprised underneath the brim of her hat, and Keith smiles at her. She smiles back, so easily, fits an arm through his and tucks herself into his side. They don’t talk, listening to just the chatter of the band, the clicking of sticks and errant notes, the camaraderie and companionship of people lucky enough to have a passion and to sink into it every Friday night.

Finally Coran bustles over, moustache twitching. “Why aren’t we all in formation? The final marching show of the season, come on! This is our last chance to practice before competitions in the spring, we shall be magnificent!”

The Marching Lions finally get into formation, preparing to march onto the field. When they’re all lined up, Coran blows the whistle, which is pretty rare for him. They all turn to him, standing on his platform, lit from behind by the massive field lights.

“As this is our last football game of the year, I’d like to give the seniors a chance to say a few words before we all go out for one last hurrah!”

“Oh fuck, I’m definitely gonna cry,” Lance whispers beside Keith, and Keith snorts.

“Live fast, die young, bad girls do it well!” Hira shouts, which is the perfect way to kick it off.

“You were the best band I’ve ever had,” Shay calls out, and Lance sniffles, says, “ _Shit_ , I’m already crying.”

“Thank you all for everything this year,” Allura says, and everyone quiets down to hear her proud voice. “Every last one of you has made this year incredible, and I want to say that I appreciate it. Go Marching Lions!”

“Don’t ask about the lions,” Lance and Keith whisper in union. Keith can’t stop grinning.

A couple of other seniors take their turn while everyone waits for Shiro, who is apparently going last for the aesthetic of it. Whenever everyone’s gone and it’s almost time to mount the field, Shiro turns around so he can face them all. Keith pokes his head out from behind a Shako to see.

“There’s nothing I could say that hasn’t already been said,” he says solemnly, snare drum strapped to his front, “and by much more articulate people than me. So I’m going to try something new here, uh, we’ll see how it goes – “

Keith holds his breath.

“ _What team?_ ” Shiro bellows.

“WILDCATS!” The entire band shouts back, and Shiro grins and starts the count-off.

One and two and one two three four –

They march onto the field as the crowd roars. Five minutes of glory. Five minutes with his tribe. It’s more than enough.

Raising his horn feels like a battle standard.

From the first note, they’re electric. Keith doesn’t know if it’s because it’s their last time, or because it’s just their band, or maybe it’s just a good Friday night. But the Marching Lions are rockstars. Every step is in sync, every note is in tune. Shiro, possessed by some drum god, ad libs during the drum breakdown before _Somebody to Love_ and delivers one of the sickest snare drum fills Keith’s ever heard. The trumpets have never sounded so clear, so atmospheric. Keith almost feels himself tearing up, and vows not to cry because then Lance will never let him live it down.

He feels totally fond thinking about it, Lance giving him shit for crying. And he doesn’t even deny it.

Once they’re off the field, the cheers are legendary. The whole band piles together in one massive hug, everyone cheering and getting poked with various instruments before they all break to go get food or run to the bathroom. This is normally Keith’s decompression moment, his time to regather his introvert strength. Instead, he walks right on the sidelines over to the parents’ section, where his dad is talking with the McClains, making easy conversation with a beer in his hand.

“Dad!” He hollers.

His dad turns and beams when he sees him. “Hey bud! You guys were killer!”

“Great job, sweetie!” Mrs. McClain yells down, waving and smiling.

“Thank you!” He yells back, and he thinks maybe his dad knows how much he’s thanking him for.

The football team actually scores a goal in the second half, making the band erupt in cheers and scramble to their feet to play an enthusiastic fight song (Pidge pouts through the entire thing). Their third quarter break comes up, and Coran calls the traditional _Hey Baby_. Keith doesn’t even look at his music when they start playing, just grins at Lance and claps along in time.

“Heeeey – hey, baby! Ooh, aah! I wanna know – “ He sings, swaying along with Lance. “If you’ll be my girl!”

(He’s trying not to sing it to Lance, he’s trying so hard, he’s looking literally anywhere else because if he looks at Lance he’ll be able to read it all over his face. He’s pathetic, and he can’t help it, and he wants to kiss Lance so bad it hurts).

They start in on the instrumental part, Keith grateful for his trumpet to block his bright red face, and at first he starts thinking he’s doing something wrong when Lance drops his trumpet and says, “Holy shit!”

He turns, eyes raised as his mouth still plays, and finds Lance jumping up and down and pointing at the electronic scoreboard.

There, in pixelated single color, the score has been erased and instead reads “ALLURA – WILL YOU GO TO WINTER FORMAL WITH ME? SHIRO”

The band starts screaming, the music dropping off as people stop playing to gasp, and Shay has to physically nudge Allura to get her to look over. She looks, gasps, almost drops her piccolo as she turns to Shiro.

“Shiro?” She yells over the music.

“It was supposed to be while we were singing!” He yells back, face flustered with his sticks in his hands.

“We have to keep playing the song, children!” Coran screams, half-laughing.

Shiro grabs his sticks and starts playing again, still looking at her. “Is that a yes?” He bellows to be heard.

Allura’s grinning, pink-cheeked, eyes warm. She nods, fingers still moving with the piccolo.

Pidge screams in joy, throws her whole saxophone up. Hunk starts whooping.

“KEEP PLAYING, THE SONG’S NOT OVER!” Coran screams.

Keith can’t be sure, but he could swear that Shiro rushes the ending of this song (Shiro will deny it on pain of death later). As soon as they finish the last joyful breakdown, Allura clambers over the rest of the flutes and drumline to grip Shiro in a bruising hug, her tiny fingers gripping tight to the back of his jacket. He’s got some stammering explanation about the timing of it that she clearly doesn’t care about, keeps laughing over him and saying ‘Yes, it was always a yes.’ Keith thinks he sees the hint of a kiss, just a brush of lips, but he only notices because he and Lance are watching so closely it’s like they’re trying to figure out who won the Kentucky Derby by a nose.

“Ewww, Mom and Dad are kissing!” Lance yells dramatically, and they both whip around in unison.

“Shut up, Lance!”

“Showing affection between parents is good!” He screams back, eyes dancing. Keith fucking loves this boy.

“Keith, hit him for me!” Coran says. He’s looking a little tearful, having trouble keeping his eyes off Allura.

Keith whaps Lance upside the head, and it barely takes Lance yelping and looking sideways at him for Keith to relent. “Sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Lance says, “the power of love will heal it. Right, Dad?”

“I am not your father, Lance!”

Allura stays down with Shiro and the drumline for another five minutes, canoodling and basking in her post-promposal-glow, until the Fighting Lions score another touchdown and she has to run back and play the fight song on her piccolo.

“When did the team get kinda good?” Hunk asks as soon as their instruments are down.

“No idea. What do you think, Pidgey? Should be getting a little worried, huh?” Lance calls over to the saxes.

“I fear no man,” Pidge replies coolly. “It’s still 21-14. The Lions will have to score a whole other touchdown in the eight minutes. We’ve barely scored a touchdown all year.”

“They switched out the QB,” Keith says.

About ten people stare at him blankly.

“The quarterback,” Keith elaborates. “He twisted his ankle at the end of the first half, so they put their second-string guy in. He’s actually making good throws and calling plays.”

“How do you know football?” Lance says.

“I’m from Texas, how do you _not_ know football? You watch it every Friday night!”

“I watch shit football every Friday night, I am not expected to know any of this!”

“This is honestly the first time in three years I’ve actually kinda paid attention to the game,” Hunk admits.

Keith groans in horror.

The marching band settles in to actually give a shit about the game for the first time. The football team, which has apparently tapped into a latent desire to win that has been absent the entire rest of the season, is making ballsy, wild plays that are actually working out well; the other team has no idea what to do with a quarterback who pretends to throw it to his running back and instead hands it to a lineman, who takes it twenty whole yards. It’s the single wildest game Keith’s ever watched, and he can see his dad biting his nails in the stands. The Marching Lions are trying their best to cheer on their team, but their encouragement is…a little uneducated.

“Go Garrison High!” Shay yells from the front row, clapping her hands together. “Press! Do a press!”

“Shay, that’s basketball,” Keith calls down. “Full court press is basketball.”

“Is it really?”

“Hell yeah!” Lance screams after a gutsy first down. “Touchdown!”

“Lance, Jesus, that’s not a touchdown. That’s when it goes through the posts.”

“When do we yell ‘gooooooal’?”

“That’s _soccer_!”

Pidge clutches her tenor sax like a teddy bear, her bravado evaporated in the face of a team that has apparently decided to win at any cost, even their own lives. The tight end gets tackled pretty savagely by the opposing team; as he’s carried off by the athletic trainers, Keith hears him yell, “Avenge me! Don’t give up the ship!”

Damn. Not even Texas football was this apeshit.

They’re all leaning forward in their seats when, in the last five minutes, the Lions force the other team all the way to four downs and the ten-yard line. The running back gets trapped pretty quickly, but something possesses him and he literally leaps over them to land in the end zone as the stands erupt.

“Oh my God, they’re tied,” Keith says, standing up and fumbling for his trumpet. Pidge has gone white as a sheet under her Shako. “Jesus Christ, they tied!”

Coran rallies the band to pull through on the fight song, and when the team completes the conversion, the scoreboard reads 21-21. They all watch, still standing and awestruck, as the game clock runs out.

“Keith,” Lance says, voice hysterical, “what happens in overtime?”

The entire band, including Coran, turn to Keith, who gets the distinct impression that he’s a kindergarten teacher explaining basic math.

“Each team gets one possession,” he says, and sees only a sea of blank faces. “Each team gets the ball one time,” he tries again, and sees everybody nod. “In Texas they started on the 25 yard line, I don’t know about here. And they get one possession – four downs, just like the rest of the game – to score. And each team gets two tries until one of them comes out ahead.”

“Oh my God, you’re gonna dance, Pidge,” Lance says immediately. “You’re gonna dance the Cupid Shuffle while playing your saxophone. These guys are on fire right now. I can see the future, and it’s you dancing.”

“ _No_ ,” she says, a little desperately, a little hysterically, “no, I will not be doing that, because Coran will be telling us all his criminal history and we will find out that he was in the mafia! Because the Lions suck, and they always have sucked, and they always will suck!”

“They’re doing great tonight,” Keith says honestly. She turns to him with eyes like dinner plates and shrills, “ _Shut up!_ ”

The Lions lose the coin toss, so the other team gets the possession first. They head to the ten-yard line, which seems insanely close to Keith. The Lions defense isn’t particularly great, but they don’t need to be great; they only need to be adequate. As Keith watches in awe, the opposing team fumbles, gets stopped, and sucks their way through four downs, and when the ref blows the whistle the Lions get the ball.

“This cannot be happening,” Pidge says under her breath. “The chances of this happening were astronomical. How do they win the _last game of the fucking season_ when they’ve sucked for _three straight years?_ ”

Shiro calls a drumline cadence while they set up, which only serves to ratchet Keith’s heartrate up about ten notches. He and Lance are huddled together, standing up on their seats to look over at the field.

The newbie QB spends a long time in the huddle, and when they break they line up just like before. They call, the snap goes out, they scramble down the field, and the running back makes a break for it, far far off to the left.

“Oh my God – “ Keith says.

Lance grabs his hand.

The QB throws –

“ _Pleeeease_ ,” Pidge begs.

The ball sails right out of reach of a leaping defender, right into the hands of the receiver who dances his way into the end zone.

“Lions win!” The announcer screams, voice ripping from the speakers. The crowd, the marching band, the whole _town_ dances in their seats. Keith and Lance start screaming, jumping up and down, still holding hands. “Lions win! 28-21, Lions win, Lions win!”

Pidge drops to her knees and screams.

“Fight song, fight song!” Coran yells, as he scrambles up on the platform. His moustache is frazzled from running his hands through it. “Fight song, now, one-two-three-four!”

It’s the single most triumphant fight song Keith’s ever played, as well as the sloppiest, as he’s way too hyped up on adrenaline to give a shit about notes or timing. They all rush, every single one of them, and Pidge is totally out of tune, and it doesn’t even matter because afterwards –

Coran mounts his platform, and he doesn’t even say anything before the marching band starts “Oooooooh”ing. He holds out a hand to the sax section like he’s inviting a genteel country lady to dance the Virginia reel. “Miss Holt, I believe we had an arrangement.”

The band cheers as Pidge looks murderously up at Coran, and for a split second Keith thinks she’s going to refuse to dance. But she finally stands, applause following her every move. “Mama ain’t raise no bitch,” she says loud and clear, and then walks down in full uniform, Shako on her head, tenor sax strapped to her neck.

When she gets down Coran has dismounted to give a very sportsmanlike handshake, the two of them looking like horse owners shaking after the Kentucky Derby. Coran leans down to whisper something in her ear that makes her grin, but her face snaps quickly back to bitter resignation. She takes up a place by the cheerleaders, licking her reed as the cheerleaders and most of the stands look on in confusion, taking their eyes away from the half-field celebration going on.

“Number 23!” Coran calls.  

The band flips through their books, finding the song that they all knew was coming. Lance is staring down at the sheet, biting his lip, and Keith knows him well enough to know that he’s planning something big. Keith's heart leaps up in his chest, just out of anticipation.

“Coran!” Lance yells, standing up. “Are there any rules in the bet about who may join Miss Holt?”

Coran raises his eyebrows, looks down at Pidge. “No, I don’t believe there were any such rules,” he calls back.

“Requesting permission to dance and play with Pidge!” He says, and chattering breaks out through the band. Pidge’s face lights up, her grin casting shadows on her face from the lights.

“Permission granted,” Coran yells, and Lance only has to turn to Keith, blue eyes seeking his like a compulsion, like Keith’s the first person he wants to look at, his first thought. That’s all it takes.

“Requesting permission too,” Keith says, standing up too. He sees Allura’s huge eyes from down below and his face flushes red. “Sir,” he says, uselessly.

“Permission granted,” Coran says, amused. “Get down here, you ragamuffins.”

Lance and Keith scramble down the stairs and onto the field, gripping their trumpets tight. “What did you get me into?” Keith hisses, flicking through to find number 23. “This part’s actually kinda high!”

“Technically it’s your fault, you’re the one who suggested this song in the first place.” Lance sounds half a second from a laugh.

“My part’s the hardest in this whole book,” Pidge mutters. “Tenors and trombones carry the whole melody.”

“Better play it good, Pidgeon,” Lance says. She flicks a grin at him, adjusting her glasses.

Coran raises his hands and horns go up. He spares them one last glance before counting off. “One – two – three – four – “

The drumline launches off and they start dancing, shuffling to the right and then the left. Keith tries to play the first trumpet bits and figures out pretty quickly that he can either play or dance, but he can’t do both; he’s either half a beat late on his steps or his playing, no matter what he does. Pidge is the picture of concentration, holding up her part while dancing in place; Lance is really barely playing, just holding his trumpet to his lips while he dances.

They start kicking with the cymbal clashes and Keith gets a good look at the whole band, how they’re all having trouble playing through their grins, and he sees his father and the rest of the parents clapping along in the stands. The cheerleaders run over and join them, so it’s a whole line of people dancing the Cupid Shuffle. The lion mascot gets in on it, dancing at the very end, and Keith cracks up and totally loses it for a second at the sight of a giant furry dancing with a whole line of scantily-clad cheerleaders.

The music clicks, just at the very end – Keith finally recognizes Pidge’s part for the lead-in that it is, and his trumpet is high and loud and perfectly on time right after her lick. She grins at him, and he grins back, and they dance like fucking dorks right on the sideline. When the song ends Pidge wiggles in place while Lance does a truly heroic trumpet fill, running up down the scale while his face gets redder and redder until he hits a note and holds it for a good five seconds after the rest of the band ends.

The band acknowledges their work with the same loud screams and cheers that they always do, the noise that Keith found so annoying at the beginning of the year. Funny how much he likes it when it’s directed at him. He links arms with Lance and Pidge, and they link with the cheerleaders and the mascot, and the whole line does a bow to the cheering stands. Keith’s dad claps his hands over his heads back from the stands.

“Oh my God,” Pidge says, taking off her Shako and wiping sweat from her red forehead. “Did anyone else think that was going to be easier than it was? That actually was a lot of concentration.”

“Imagine doing that with _Carry On_ ,” Lance says, taking Shiro’s water bottle and drinking big gulps that Keith can’t help but watch. “You picked a good song to bet, Pidge.”

“I think the song was Coran’s idea, actually.”

“It was, I thought it would be a good challenge without being too demanding,” Coran says, leaning against his platform. Keith laughs, taking his Shako off too, running a hand through his sweat-tacky hair. God, he’s so pleasantly tired, like he’s just had a good workout; he’s going to sleep well tonight. “Yes, it went splendidly, I knew the Fighting Lions would come out on top for me. Really, the bet was too simple when you look critically at it, I should have bet my knowledge of the lions, that would have raised the stakes quite spectacularly!”

The rest of the world spins on; the Garrison High Marching Band, however, freezes in time.

“ _What?_ ” Lance says.

“Are you saying…” Shiro begins. “Are you actually saying you _know_ why our school is covered in lions?”

“Yes, of course!” Coran says brightly.

Everyone stares at him.

“Well, _why?_ ” Pidge says. “What’s the secret? Why are there so many fucking lions?”

“Oh, I shan’t be saying,” Coran says. “That wasn’t part of the bet.”

Allura leans forward, very very slowly, over the bleachers, her hands braced on the railing. “Coran,” she says, desperately, “you’ve known this whole time? And you won’t tell us now?”

“No,” he says with an easy smile. “That wasn’t part of the bet!”

If Keith had to pick a sensation to best describe his emotional state at the moment, he would say it was the emotional equivalent of getting suckerpunched in the testicles by your favorite stuffed duck from your childhood, who grinned at you as he took away your every scrap of happiness.

Hunk starts wailing in the back bleachers.

“You fucking knew?” Pidge says, her eyes wide and crazed. “Every time we said ‘Don’t ask about the lions’, every time, you knew, and you didn’t tell us, and you’re not going to tell us, and you’re going to let us go _insane_ with the knowledge – “

“ _Whyyyy?_ ” Lance drops to his knees. “Why is God so cruel?”

Shiro snaps a drumstick with his bare hands. Allura flops onto Shay’s lap and sobs. Hira shouts, “Have pity, you heartless tyrant!” Freshmen start crying. Keith considers strangling Coran with his own moustache.

Pidge falls fully down on the field, pressing her hands to her eyes and screaming, a low toneless wail. “There is no God!” She proclaims. “We are living in godless times! We have been forsaken!”

“Coran,” Keith tries again, “Coran, please, we’re going to go crazy – “

“Oh no, you’ve lived this whole time, you can survive the rest of your lives!”

The band melts down; popcorn is thrown, instruments are played in cacophony, Lance starts weeping in Spanish, Allura chews on the end of her braid, Keith grabs a drumstick and spikes it into the turf where it stands, wobbling in place, a cruel testimony to how close they came to learning the meaning of life.

“This is the first moment of our new lives,” Shiro says. His eyes are wide like a war veteran’s. “We have to live with this now. We have to move forward, after learning the impossible. We have to learn how to cope with the unimaginable.”

“Children…” Coran says, looking over at his band, which now resembles a funeral, “is this really a worthy reaction?”

Lance looks up slowly, blue eyes wide.

“You have no idea what you have done to us,” he whispers. “Sic ‘im!”

The whole band as one throws their popcorn straight at him. Keith and Shiro run over to the Gatorade container and dump it over Coran’s head, flooding him with sticky, blue liquid. Hunk manages a tearful laugh from where he’s sprawled like a Rubens painting over the stairs, and as Coran splutters and attempts to wipe Gatorade out of his moustache, Keith finally manages a smile.

“I guess…” he says to Lance. “Still don’t ask about the lions?”

“Buddy,” Lance says, and his smile is soft and warm like sunset over the ocean, “I’m never asking about the lions again for the rest of my damned life.”

The Friday night lights shine on the happiest night of Keith’s life.

 

* * *

 

 

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #bravenewworld #thelionsarealie #andsoislove**

**Lance:** Alright soundoff

**Lance** : I want to make sure everyone is alive after yesterday’s revelation

**Allura** : I spent the night begging Coran to talk and he shut himself in his room and swore never to say

**Allura** : So after that I watched the mice run in their wheel for hours while I contemplated the meaning of life

**Lance** : Princess, pull it together, we need you to live. Do you believe in life after love?

**Lance** : Cher wants you to answer

**Allura** : In the words of Dwight Schrute… “Will I get over it? No”

**Allura** : “But life goes on.”

**Pidge** : I didn’t know you watched the office!

**Allura** : I didn’t until last night

**Allura** : I watched nine seasons straight through to distract me from existential angst

**Lance** : Alright, we need some happy news

**Lance** : Who’s got something that will stop Allura from spiraling into a total meltdown??

**Hunk** : I perfected my peanut butter cookies today!

**Pidge** : YAY I LOVE YOUR PEANUT BUTTER COOKIES

**Hunk** : Sorry pidgey I kinda gave them all away already?

**Pidge** : What the fukc??? Does our friendship mean nothing to you?

**Hunk** : I kinda used them to ask Shay to winter formal after school today?

**Lance** : holy SHIT THAT’S AMAZING WHY DIDN’T YOU LEAD WITH THAT??

**Shiro** : What did she say?

**Hunk** : yess!!!! *heart-eyes emoji*

**Allura** : Awww yaaay!! Congratulations my love!!! That’s amazing! You guys will make a beautiful couple!

**Pidge** : If someone had to eat those cookies who wasn't me, I'm glad it was Shay *sparkly heart emoji*

**Keith** : That’s awesome buddy

**Hunk** : *blushing emoji* You guys are the best

**Lance** : This is the only thing that could ever fill the hole in my heart left by The Day Which Shall Go Down in Infamy

**Shiro** : Did you just seriously compare us not learning about the lions to Pearl Harbor?

**Lance** : I said what I said.

**Lance:** Don't @ me

**Hunk** : Okay but now I need a suit where do you even get suits??

**Hunk** : Like on a scale from one to James Bond how good do I need to look? Can I just kinda roll up in my usual cargo shorts and be like ‘you already said yes no takebacksies?’

**Shiro** : We all wore suits not two weeks ago for Pidge’s concert

**Shiro** : The suit you wore that night was just fine.

**Hunk** : I already forgot about that

**Pidge** : Thanks!!!!!

**Hunk** : Pidgey no I DIDN’T MEAN LIKE THATTHAT

**Keith** : So it’s not too formal? Like regular suits are fine? You don’t need a tux or anything?

**Lance** : God no

**Lance** : It’s fucking Garrison High

**Lance** : This school puts the ‘loser’ in

**Lance** : Uh

**Lance** : the loser in

**Lance** :

**Lance** :

**Allura** : yes?

**Lance** : goddamn it

**Lance** : I got nothing

**Pidge** : *laughing-crying emoji* oh my god

**Hunk** : that’s okay, you picked a tough one

**Keith** : Garrison High puts the ‘loser’ in ‘discloser’

**Hunk** : DAMN SON

**Lance** : HOW DID YOU KNOW THAT? HOW DID YOU DO THAT?

**Shiro** : That was really impressive, Keith

**Lance** : I’M CALLING BULLSHIT

**Keith** : yeah, okay

**Keith** : I looked it up

**Shiro** : I’m so disappointed

**Shiro:** Mostly in myself for having hope that we would have some intelligent discourse on this group chat

**Allura** : What’s everyone up to tonight?

**Hunk** : Freaking out about what I’m wearing to winter formal

**Hunk** : besides that, nothing

**Keith** : Homework

**Pidge** : Same

**Allura** : It’s a really pretty night, probably one of our last warm-ish ones for a while

**Allura** : Anyone up for a beach trip??

**Lance** : Are you telling the youth to blow off homework?? Miss Allura Altea, queen of AP classes?

**Allura** : Homework is less important than friendship *kissing emoji*

**Allura** : And I really feel like the beach

**Allura** : Come on, we live in California! Let’s cali it up!

**Pidge** : Say less, I’m in

**Shiro** : Yeah, that sounds great!

**Lance** : One last hurrah before Rockfest!!

**Keith** : Want me to borrow my dad’s truck? For the firewood and everything?

**Lance** : Riding the duelly HELL YEAAAAAAHH

**Hunk** : Alright yeah I’m in

**Pidge** : Meet at my house in half an hour!!

**Pidge** : WE RIDE AT SUNSET!!

 

* * *

 

 

And so off to the beach they go. They leave cars and motorcycles all huddled down Pidge’s driveway, everyone piling into Keith’s truck with the firepit and wood thrown into the bed. Keith informs them that the truck only seats five, so someone’s going to have to ride in the bed and hide from the cops and Mrs. Holt’s watchful eye. This proclamation does not have the effect he expected; Lance calls it first, and then Allura and Pidge both loudly want in, and then Hunk doesn’t want to be left out.

“Guys, it’s not safe – “ Shiro protests.

“Live fast, die young!” Lance says, already fully seated in the bed of the truck. His eyes are afire even in the dim streetlights.

“You only live _once_ , Shiro!” Allura says.

“I’ll drive slow,” Keith tells him. “We’re not going far.”

“If we get pulled over, I’m jumping out so I have deniability,” Shiro says.

“Bullshit, like you’d ever let us go down without you,” Hunk says.

Shiro puts his head in his hands. “I need new friends,” he finally says. “Ones who don’t know me as well.”

Keith rubs his back. “Give it up, Dad. You’re stuck with us now.”

So they trundle down to the beach, windows down and Blink-182 blaring, leaving a blaze of sound and joy through every dark suburban street they pass. As soon as they hit a straightaway, Keith feels as Lance braces his hands against the roof of the truck, hauling himself up. He looks in his rearview mirror and just sees a pair of jean-clad legs; he looks out the side mirror and sees the faintest edge of Lance, standing up in the bed with his hands raised to heaven.

“Lance, be careful!” Shiro shouts.

Lance’s only response is a whooping laugh. God, Keith loves this boy.

Because that’s all there is, right? That’s all this can be. That’s all Keith can think, every time he watches him. Every moment, every little action, every second that Keith gets to spend in his presence, he loves him. He watches Lance lift up Pidge and Allura and Hunk until they’re all standing in the bed screaming and he has to worry that they really are going to tip over the truck and he drops down his speed by ten miles. He watches him as the chill November wind whips in from the ocean, watches him draw his brown jacket closer to himself and smile into the wind, blinking blue eyes against the sting. He watches Lance when they park, the only ones on the beach, and he jumps down, shaking from adrenaline and grinning loosely, like he’s ready to take on anything, anyone, like this world holds nothing that he can’t face. It scared him, his feelings when he first found them; now there’s a desperate peace, no resolution in sight, no way out but through. He’s in love with Lance, and either Lance will love him back or he won’t. At this point, Keith can’t think of any reason Lance ever would reciprocate his feelings, and there’s a certain peace in that too.

At least he gets to love him. At least he gets to let this beautiful, bright boy turn his life from a starless night into a spray of fireworks.

Keith’s counting himself lucky.

It’s much colder than the last time they were here in September; everyone’s bundled up in hoodies and jeans, and setting up the firepit takes precedence to jumping in the ocean. The winter ocean is a whole different beast; hammered silver in the moonlight, the sand cold and prickling, wind whipping over the long, dark stretch of beach like something blown open; an aching, gaping openness where something had once been and something no longer would be. The sky melts into the sea, black into black, only the stars and the tiny flicks of white foam separating the two great slumbering giants at the seam. Keith stands and watches it for moments on end as commotion swirls around him, his friends and bandmates talking and setting up while he stares, transfixed, into the beautiful blackness. The wind tosses his hair over his face, in his eyelashes and between his lips and over his goose-pimpled skin. He never wants to leave.

“Come on, cowboy.” It’s Lance, standing next to him, smiling. He’s so soft, washed in the silvery moonlight. “One quick dip.”

They all roll up their jeans and walk, shrieking and giggling, up to the edge of the water. Every one of them almost backs out at one point, only to have the rest of the group grab them by the arms and haul them back in. Keith feels his leg hair standing on edge, laughing with adrenaline with each step towards the freezing water.

“Oh, _shit_ ,” Pidge says, just as they finally get within striking range, “Oh my God – “

“Oh God!” The water’s _freezing_ , a wash of silver needles that makes Keith want to break away and run behind him. Next to him Hunk is jumping up and down, Allura grabs onto Shiro’s arm and screams, Pidge is dancing in place while her whole face scrunches up in pain.

“ _Viva California!_ ” Lance screams into the night. His voice shivers, betraying him. Keith feels the need to grab his hand like a physical ache. 

Instead, he says, “Viva California,” and ducks down to grab a handful of freezing water and splash it right on Lance.

“ _Holy fuck_ , oh my God, why would you _do_ that, you godless creature – “ Lance whips his whole arm down, sending a spray right on Keith, who hisses and dances away. Allura quickly splashes Shiro as well, who gasps in mock outrage and scoops up her up around the waist, pretending to drop her in the water as she laughs in delight. Pidge stomps around, splashing up on Hunk’s shorts, while he moans in agony and tries to push her away even as his face is split with a grin.

Lance grabs Keith’s arm, his hand a searing warmth even through Keith’s hoodie. “You too cold, cowboy?”

Keith’s fucking freezing, and he wants nothing more than to curl up by the fire. Around him, his friends shriek and splash, dark silhouettes against a dark sky, young and free and fierce. The people who took in a broken, silent kid, drew him in deeper and deeper until he was warm and alive and knew that he was loved.

“Never been warmer,” Keith replies.

Lance’s grin is a white star in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently the apocalypse is upon us, because PVB managed to update in two and a half weeks and that has to be one of the first signs of the end of the world. Honestly, the reviews on the last chapter were so awesome, they were all the motivation I needed to get this out quick.
> 
> We're almost done aaaahhhh!! One chapter left, next time it's Winter Formal and Rockfest!! Let me know what you thought of this chapter and I'll see you guys for the last installment, hopefully very soon. Love you like the writers of Voltron love crushing my dreams - PVB
> 
> Chapter title from 'Because the Night' by Bruce Frederick Joseph Springsteen


	13. Magic in the Night

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #theriseandfallofthegalraempire #lotorwewillrockyou #boomboomclap**

**Allura:** Alright so I made reservations for us at Olive Garden at 6 so everyone be on time!!

**Allura** : We’ll leave our rockfest outfits in Hunk’s car and change at winter formal

**Allura** : Everyone have everything they need?

**Lance** : If this is your way of asking shiro if he’s got the corsage, you are being REAL subtle

**Shiro** : I’ve got the corsage!!!!

**Shiro** : It’s the right color and everything!!

**Shiro** : I asked Pidge!!

**Pidge** : Disclaimer I am really bad at colors so if it turns out it was the wrong color he should not have taken my advice for a legally binding suggestion and he holds sole responsibility

**Allura** : I’m not going to kill you for getting the corsage color wrong…

**Hunk** : ok but like why did you have those ellipses??

**Hunk** : very threatening mom, okay

**Allura** : I am not your mother! I am not the mother of anyone on this group chat!

**Allura** : except for Keith, if he wants, because he’s a dear

**Keith** : <3

**Lance** : KEITH’S AN ASSHOLE???

**Keith** : Yeah but mom loves me

**Pidge** : If mom really loved us she would’ve gotten a reservation at a REAL Italian restaurant

**Pidge** : not Olive Garden, the pinnacle of American garbage food and failed dreams

**Shiro** : There was nowhere else that could take six people on such late notice

**Hunk** : also I have photographic evidence of you destroying their garlic bread, so

**Hunk** : you kno

**Lance** : Shit, Hunk is a beast tonight!! Should’ve gotten with Shay years ago, your self-esteem is through the roof!!

**Hunk** : I don’t know if it’s self-esteem or that I’m so nervous I'm not considering my words for ten minutes before I say them

**Shiro** : There’s nothing to be nervous about. You’re going to have an amazing night

**Shiro** : We all are

**Shiro** : *heart-eyes emoji*

**Lance** : jesus h. Christ DADDY IS USING EMOJIS???

**Keith** : I have never seen an emoji from your dignified fingers

**Pidge** : This is already the best night of my life

**Pidge** : I can die happy now

**Allura** : No dying Pidgeon!! We have a Rockfest to win!

**Allura** : ROAR

**Hunk** : Allura is the true lion spirit, pass it on

**Lance** : you know what, I’ll allow it

**Keith** : checks out

**Group Chat: Team Voltron #roar #alluraqueenofthelions #dontaskaboutthelions #excepttoworshipallura**

**Allura:** I can live with this development <3

 

* * *

 

 

Despite an insignificant amount of popularity or social capital, Lance has, in fact, attended winter formal every year of his high school career. Freshman year he ‘went’ with Lotor – neither of them were really out, so they arrived together and spent all of their time together and went to make out behind the gym during slow songs. Sophomore year he went stag, just him and Hunk. They mostly sat on the sidelines, drinking punch and snapchatting Pidge, only really getting up to dance the Cupid Shuffle and Wobble. He loved it, had a great time – he was still in recovery from freshman year, was still rebuilding his friendship with Hunk – and he doesn’t want to take the night for granted. But, still. It was a little lonely, looking out over the dark gym, at everyone in big groups or paired off, laughing and dancing and seemingly living their perfect high school movie life, _just_ out of Lance’s reach, these easy social interactions that Lance never seemed to be able to hold onto. He always figured that his high school experience would be a bit more _Perks of Being a Wallflower_ than _Mean Girls_ ; he just didn’t think it’d sting this much. He didn’t want to be one of those guys who sat there in his thirties, wishing he could do high school differently, longing for that one perfect memory that could’ve carried him through, feeling its absence like a missing tooth, the negative space where something amazing could’ve existed – that _one_ night that will make him smile, years and years later.

Lance walks into the gym for his junior year winter formal, his whole squad with him, and thinks, _This is it._

He can feel Keith’s presence like a billboard on a dark night, shifting the very air around it with its light. He hesitates just a little as they all walk inside, a slight pause in his step as he looks around at the hazy gym, decorated with the very best Party City wares. A long table with snacks lines the back wall; there’s a DJ booth set up underneath the basketball hoop, a wide swath of dancing bodies, mostly black suits and dresses with various splashes of color. A mirror ball glitters on the ceiling, throwing specks of rainbow light over the walls and bodies and faces.

“First dance?” Lance asks.

Keith nods, which was what Lance expected. He’s wearing the same suit from Pidge’s concert; a slightly too big suit, hanging just a little off his shoulders. He’s gone classic, a white button-down with a black skinny tie, his hair fluffy and brushing the tip of his collar. Lance is gone for him.

“Mine too,” Pidge says, sidling up beside him and nudging him. “We can be counter-culture kids bitching about the music all night if you want.”

“Other people do have shitty taste in music,” Keith agrees. He smiles down at Pidge, a sight that warm’s Lance’s heart. He _loves_ that Keith loves his friends. It’s basically boyfriend 101. “I really like your suit.”

“It’s the same suit I wore at the concert,” she scoffs.

“You still look good, I’m just trying to compliment you, damn. I’m gonna tell Shay how good she looks instead.”

“That would be fine with me, Shay looks awesome,” Pidge says good-naturedly.

Shay blushes, tucking herself a little closer to Hunk. Her dress is a gorgeous warm brown, crushed velvet and taffeta that goes perfectly with her signature chunky gold hoops. Her corsage and the matching boutonniere in Hunk’s suit are bright yellow roses.

“Stop it, everyone looks great,” Shay says, just as sweetly as ever. They do look fantastic; Allura is dazzling in a sparkly pink dress, her hair unleashed to its full glory, falling halfway down her back in a silvery cascade. Shiro looks stunned just to be in her presence, a pink tie and white boutonniere completing his basic tux. Lance is pretty proud of his combo; it’s a navy blue suit, with a black button-down and a bright blue tie that makes his eyes pop, according to his older sister Veronica. He’d look beautiful with Keith, if they came together.

Which _yikes_ , down that road be dragons. Leave it to Lance to fall in love with the single straightest guy in all existence. The guy drives _motorcycles_ for fuck’s sake, no use barking up that tree. Better just to ogle that perky butt from behind while Lance dies alone in a puddle of tears and misery.

“Who wants to dance?” He says loudly.

The crew cheers, hands going up in the air. The DJ puts on _Hey Ya!_ , so they all throw their various bags on the nearest table and rush into the throng. Lance pauses and reaches behind him, already prepared to wheedle Keith into dancing with them, only to find Keith in the thick of it, right behind Hunk with a grin on his face as he rushes into the crowd. Lance’s mouth parts without him asking, staring awestruck. Keith makes eye contact, gives a tiny smile, bashful and a little bit proud all at once. And then the DJ is asking “What’s cooler than being cold?” and Keith tips his head back with the rest of them to bellow, “Ice cold!” into the air.

So the night goes – dancing their way through the greatest hits of the 2000s, getting increasingly sweaty, ties loosened and corsages rumpled. None of them are particularly good dancers, so it’s mostly bouncing and hip-shaking and Fortnite dances and grinding from the couples (and Lance and Hunk, because ‘Ignition Remix’ came on and Lance needed him a piece of those hips). Allura drags them away at one point to get their official picture taken. She definitely wants a nice one for her mantlepiece, and Lance knows that. But still. Shiro’s pink tie has somehow wound up as a headtie around Pidge’s hair, and rather than take it off to look presentable, Lance grabs Hunk’s jacket and puts it on his head as Batman cape. And then Keith steals Shay’s heels, and she messes up his hair in retaliation, and by the time the photographer yells at them that he’s about to take the picture, Allura has just enough time to slide down in front and throw up a peace sign before the camera clicks and their one shot at a nice picture is gone.

(Deep down, Allura knew her ‘presentable’ picture was never going to happen. Lance can tell by the fond way she looks at the proof the photographer shows her.)

Hunk and Shay, overexerted by the dancing, decide to go on a walk around the school, and Pidge goes to call her brother and go over some logistics of transporting their amps and instruments to the rock show downtown. The DJ puts on a slow song, the first of the night, and Shiro and Allura barely have to look at each other before they’re standing up and heading back to the floor. Shiro takes Allura’s waist in his big hands and she slips her arms around his neck and they sway together, her face tucked into his neck and a blissful smile on his face.

Lance watches them jealously. Keith scuttled away as soon as the slow dance started, drinking what seems to be an obscene amount of punch in a show of awkwardness. Lance watches him, heart throbbing in his chest. God, he’s so tired of falling for unavailable people. One of these days, he needs to fall in love with someone who will actually choose _him_. He’s tired of hurting like this.

Keith finally realizes he can’t live at the punch table for the whole dance, and makes his awkward way back over to Lance. He hasn’t been this nervous since the first few weeks, since band camp really, and Lance is seized with the overwhelming desire to break the tension, ham it up and make him laugh. Anything to get this pinched, tragic look off his face.

“Keith,” he says once he’s in earshot, saying the first thing that comes to his brain, “Wanna dance, cowboy?”

He grins and winks, but Keith’s whole face goes red, every drop of blood in his body rushing to his cheeks and his ears and his neck so fast Lance is literally watching this boy turn a different color in front of him.

“Okay,” Keith says in a rush.

Lance’s mouth drops open for the second time tonight. Keith is fiddling with his hands, barely making eye contact through his bangs and eyelashes.

How could Lance ever say he was kidding? And especially not when he really, _really_ wants it?

He stands up and holds out a hand, and Keith slips his in. It’s sweaty and tight, gripping Lance like a vice. He fucking loves it.

Lance has no idea how to dance, and he bets Keith doesn’t either, so when they make it out to the dance floor, he just copies Shiro and puts his hands on Keith’s tiny waist. Keith – tomato-red, not making eye contact – puts his hands on Lance’s shoulders. He flicks up a glance, just the barest look from his violet eyes.

“Promise I won’t step on your toes,” Lance says, weakly.

Keith nods, all of his words robbed. They sway, eyes firmly fixed anywhere but each other, shuffling in place while Sia sings about something Lance can’t understand. In his quest not to look at Keith he catches a glimpse of Shiro and Allura, who are both staring at them with matching mad scientist grins and almost completely forgetting to still dance. Lance sticks his tongue out quickly and then finally makes eye contact with Keith.

“What was that?” He asks.

“Shiro and Allura are watching us,” Lance informs him.

“That awkward moment when Mom and Dad walk in on you.”

“Did you just meme this?” Lance says, delighted.

Keith shrugs, a little smile on his face, some of the tension loosened from his shoulders.

“This is so much better than my first formal,” Lance says. He adjusts his grip, trying to keep his fingers from slipping on the slick material of Keith’s jacket. “Dancing in public with a guy, the whole crew here…me and Lotor just snuck out, did dumb stuff on our own when we came here. I just…this is a lot better, like _so_ much better.”

“I’m glad,” Keith says. “You deserve to have a fun night. You deserve everything better than that asshole.”

Lance grins. Keith is actually a few inches shorter; he has to look down slightly to see him. “How could I not? I’ve got the best dancing partner in the world.”

As expected, Keith ducks his head, fighting off his blush. “Goddamn it, Lance,” he mutters. “Stop.”

Lance isn’t sure what to do with this reaction. He’s not sure if this is straight-guy, slight-homophobia, proving-he’s-cool-dancing-with-a-guy-but-doesn’t-want-him-to-compliment-him-cause-that’s- _actually_ -gay kinda stuff, or if Keith is actually…maybe kinda into him? His fingers are inching closer along Lance’s back, coming to rest between his shoulder blades. That’s kinda romantic, right?

No, it can’t be, Keith is _straight_ , he’s never said a damn thing about liking guys, he’s never said anything, so it can’t –

“Lance,” Keith says.

“Hmm?”

“I’m staying in Long Beach next year,” he says, with a smile. His eyes are wide, sparkling. “I talked to my dad. I’m actually gonna stay and graduate with you next year. And Hunk, and Shay and Pidge.”

“Oh my God,” Lance says, squeezing reflexively on Keith’s waist. “Holy shit, that’s amazing! I’m so happy, is this gonna be your first time spending two years at a school?”

“I’ve never had anywhere I wanted to stay before,” Keith says. “But…I would be so fucked up if I had to leave.”

“Me too,” Lance says, and the mirror ball sends a tiny rainbow prism on the lips of Keith’s smile.

They have to cut out shortly after that; Allura sends out the bat signal (a text on the group chat that just says _Roar_ ) and they all gather up their stuff and prepare to head out to the venue. Quite a few people are leaving early; all of the bands have to head over early for sound check, and most of the remaining formal attendees will arrive once the dance is over. Pidge grabs her discarded suit jacket and throws it over her shoulder with one finger, frantically texting her brother and mother simultaneously, and runs straight into a sparkly red body.

“Ooh shit, I am so sorry, my bad – “

“Oh, no, it’s all good.” Pidge looks up and sees Toni, her partner from English class, smiling down at her, wearing a gorgeous red dress with a deep, plunging neckline. Pidge’s gay little heart dies in her chest.

“Hey Toni,” she says weakly.

“Going to Rockfest?”

“Uh, yeah. You coming?”

“Yeah, of course,” Toni says, with a lovely, genuine smile. Behind her, Pidge can see the entirety of Voltron standing and staring at her. Lance’s phone is out, the little fuck, and it looks like he’s taking pictures. “You’re in Voltron, right?”

“Yeah,” Pidge says, which is apparently what her extensive vocabulary has been reduced to. How did Toni know she was in Voltron? “Uh, I gotta – “

“Oh yeah totally, duty calls, get out of here.”

Pidge nods, opens her mouth to say something, loses her power of speech, and then nods and runs away.

“I like your suit!” Toni calls after her as she leaves, and Pidge wants to take her stupid jacket and wrap it around her like a blanket.

“Oh my God, you fucking gay disaster,” Lance hisses as soon as she’s in earshot. “She complimented your suit, that’s lesbian for ‘let’s make babies’-“

“I will kill what you love,” she replies. “Shut the fuck up.”

Voltron piles into Mrs. Holt’s waiting minivan outside the gym; Matt Holt and Rick Kogane have already taken the instruments and equipment downtown in the duelly truck. They trundle downtown in Friday night traffic, bumping along to Kanye while Mrs. Holt taps her foot in time. Rockfest is held at the same place it always is; an awful little club called the Turquoise Hippo. It’s a coffeeshop during the day and a music venue by night; Lance has always thought that the coffeehouse parts lulls the Garrison High administration into thinking this place is more innocent than it really is (he’s found lots of white powder in the men’s bathroom and he’s guessing it’s not flour). There’s only one stage, just big enough for the bands, and they clear out all the chairs and couches to make one big dance floor. The only good thing about the Turquoise Hippo are the decades of cool stickers and graffiti on the wall and the fact that it’s small enough that Rockfest can always pack it to capacity, so Lance feels like a genuine rockstar.

“Turquoise Hippo?” Keith says out loud whenever they come in. It’s barely eight and the place is already bustling; all four bands playing tonight are here, along with all their entourages, so the tiny space is already bopping. They’re all studiously ignoring Lotor and his band, who are off on the far side of the room. “Seriously?”

“Would you prefer a periwinkle hippo?” Allura says, and then chuckles to herself.

“No, it’s just a fun name, I like it. I love hippos.”

“ _Noooo_ ,” Hunk says. “Hippos?”

“They’re funny looking,” Keith defends. They’re running back and forth to the truck, hauling out instruments and depositing them in the corner where Mr. Holt and Mr. Kogane stand a genial watch. “They’re big and squishy.”

“They kill more people per year than sharks,” Pidge informs him. “They’re the most dangerous animal in Africa.”

“But they’re so round!” Keith says in dismay.

“Keith Kogane loves hippos, I can die happy with this info,” Lance says, and Keith scoffs and shoves him.

They finally finish hauling inside all of the gear, sweating in their formal clothes. Allura’s still in her heels.

“Alright, so we’re set on gear,” Shiro says. “That should be everything.”

“We can’t set up yet, there’s still twenty minutes before soundcheck,” Allura says, checking her watch. “I say we change and regroup afterwards.”

Lance grins, his adrenaline spiking. “Oh my God, let me say it, I’ve always wanted to say it.”

“Say what?” Allura says, and Hunk sighs.

“He wants to say – “

“Hunk! Goddamn it!”

Hunk throws his hands up and then takes a theatrical bow.

Lance clears his throat. “Gang,” he says in a deep voice. “Suit up!”

 

* * *

 

 

Keith feels kinda lame when he’s getting dressed by himself in the bathroom stall. It’s just the same leather jacket and black pants that he always wears. He’s not entirely sure what makes it a rock star uniform; any idiot with a guitar could wear some boots and call himself a rock star.

And then he walks out and sees the rest of Voltron, and he gets it.

Allura is wearing a ripped white t-shirt, falling off her shoulders and showing a sparkly pink tank. Underneath her denim skirt are sparkly black fishnets and white heels, with her hair falling wild and fierce all over her body. Shiro’s got on a black sleeveless tank, showing off his massive arms and shoulders, with knee-high boots. Hunk’s in a green army jacket, fingerless gloves and his ever-present yellow headband. Pidge is the surprise, wearing an actual _dress_ – it’s black and white plaid, short and frilly and ripped, showing off her pale unshaved legs and black Doc Martens. Lance – beautiful, free, fierce Lance – is in those amazing, painted-on black jeans, with a skin-tight blue v-neck and brown Chelsea boots. His hair is spiky and his smile is blazing.

Keith gets it, looking at them. Any idiot with a guitar can wear some boots and call himself a rock star. What really makes a rock star is their attitude. And that’s one thing his crew doesn’t lack.

They all grin at each other for a moment, nodding their heads.

“Guys,” Lance says, and they all turn to him.

“We don’t fucking match at all,” he says, and they all look around and burst out laughing.

“Wow, how did we mess that up so badly?” Shiro says.

“This is really pretty bad,” Allura agrees, one delicate hand pressed to her mouth. “There is no matching theme at all here.”

“But we look really good!” Hunk defends. “Pidge is wearing a damn _dress_!”

“Dresses are punk rock as fuck,” she says calmly. “Nothing like creating musical fusion while subverting patriarchal standards of dress. It’s what Bruce Springsteen would have wanted.”

“I like how you’re saying it like he’s dead,” Shiro says. “He’s not dead. He’s in New Jersey.”

“So he’s as good as dead,” Lance says solemnly, and Keith smacks him.

Students start to trickle in from winter formal; some of them have changed out of their dresses and suits, some arrive still totally dressed, corsages and all. When the rest of the marching band enters, the population of the Turquoise Hippo doubles; the Marching Lions holler and scream and chant “What team?” over and over again. Shay and Coran are in the lead, screaming and cheering just like everybody else. They were tasked with figuring out how to transport the entire band to the coffee shop; last time Keith checked, it involved multiple school vans and possibly a flatbed truck. It’s definitely illegal. He’s not gonna ask any more questions.

Voltron runs over, hugging and saying hello to their bandmates. Keith barely knows what to say in the face of so many people – all the freshmen and sophomore trumpet players who tell him he’s going to be amazing, the over-enthusiastic drumline, the precious and adorable clarinets, all of these people who genuinely believe in him and the band. Who came out here to support them, and that doesn’t necessarily mean that they like Keith as a person but the evidence is pretty overwhelming; every person has a massive smile on their face, genuine joy as they hug him. Keith’s bad at reading people but he’s pretty sure he knows what that means. He didn't just make a few friends this year; he made a whole tribe of them.

In the midst of this the director of the Turquoise Hippo calls out, “Can the bands come up to the stage please?” He’s a very harried guy with large plugs in his ears who looks like he’d rather be anywhere than organizing a high school rock show.

Voltron separates itself from the cheering marching band and walk as one up to the stage. Lotor and his crew have been totally on their own, off in the corner and not socializing with anyone. When they walk up, Keith glares particularly hard at Lotor, trying his best to discover untapped fire powers so Lotor can spontaneously combust. Lotor doesn’t even look over at him, which is particularly infuriating. Doesn’t he know Keith is trying to get into the X-Men?

“Alright, so we’ve got the line up here,” the director says, having to speak up to be heard by the bands over the chatter of the crowd. “This is randomly decided by the judging panel, so if you’ve got a problem with it, that’s tough, we’re not changing it. We’ll open with The Galra Empire, then The Beatniks, then Rabid Squirrel, then Voltron.” Nobody reacts outwardly, but Keith tries to scan his bandmates’ faces for emotions. Going last seems like a good thing, right? Pidge has arms crossed over her chest, smiling slightly, so Keith assumes she thinks so too.

“Remember you’re playing to the judges, not the crowd. So even if the crowd is going bonkers, that’s, uh, not how you’re being judged.” Keith knew all this before; Shiro explained that the crowd reaction actually has a fairly significant impact. Coran’s not allowed to judge because his niece is in it so he’s a biased party; without him, none of the other judges from the teaching staff know a lot about music, and they tend to follow the crowd. The Galra Empire won last year on pretty heavy cheering. “Also remember you’ve already submitted your set list, so if you change your songs, we will know and we, we will kick you off. The set list you’ve submitted are the _only_ songs you are approved to play. Don’t be like the Fedoras last year and switch it up. Actually,” he gets a haunted look in his eyes. “Don’t be like the Fedoras at all. Ever.”

He shakes himself out of it while Keith mouths _What the fuck?_ At the rest of Voltron. Pidge, Lance and Hunk are stifling giggles at the mention of this band. “We seem to have hit a critical mass so we’ll start in like five minutes. Galra Empire, you’re on for sound check.”

Lotor smiles, sharp and cruel, and Zethrid cheers loudly behind him. They mount the stage, pulling up their instruments and plugging them in to amps. Keith glares at them, planning to spend the entire sound check staring furiously at the entire band so they know just how much he fucking hates their guts, when he feels a hand on his arm.

“No, we’re not looking at them,” Shiro says. He’s slowly pulling all of Voltron into a huddle, away from the main stage. “That’s giving them the attention they want, so we’re not going to play their game. We’re going to be a unified front against their douchebaggery.”

“Did you…” Lance says slowly, “did you genuinely just say ‘ _douchebaggery_ ’?”

“It’s a word!”

“It’s really not,” Allura says.

“ _Daddy_ ,” Pidge says, just that one word, and it sets them all off. Shiro looks at them with pure exasperation, and Keith can see that was his play the whole time. All the other students are giving them this personal time, the weird band cracking up in the middle of the floor. Keith loves them all, so fiercely it hurts, so hot it feels like he could take off and launch into space. He nudges closer to Lance, feels the heat of him on his side.

Behind them, the Galra Empire’s disparate chords have coalesced into something resembling an actual song, and he hears the director’s voice call, “You guys ready? Yeah?”

“Showtime,” Pidge whispers.

_Show us your best, Lotor_ , Keith thinks.

 

* * *

 

 

“Alright, alright, everybody settle down,” the director thinks, which in Lance’s opinion is one of the worst ways to start a rock concert. His heart’s still running a mile a minute, adrenaline coursing through him. “Who’s excited for Rockfest?”

The screams rattle the windows of the Turquoise Hippo, and the director has to take a minute to blink away the rush of sound. He coughs, shifts awkwardly on stage and coughs into the microphone. He really shouldn’t go into public speaking, Lance thinks. Or any kind of speaking. Anything that involves talking to people, really. “So, uh, we’ve got a great show for you guys tonight. Four awesome bands from Garrison High School are going to come up here and put on a fantastic performance. And we’re, uh. We’re really…psyched to have them. And stuff.”

“Oh my God, let me emcee,” Pidge hisses under her breath. “Literally just give me the mic, I will do _such a better job._ ”

“So, yeah, you guys know the rules. Your judges are sitting back there – “ He gestures to the back of the room, to the three faculty judges sitting at a table in the corner. How they’re going to see the bands over the crowd, Lance has no idea. This whole thing has never exactly been a paradigm of good planning. “So let’s give all of the bands a good welcome, alright? And we’re gonna start tonight with the Galra Empire!”

Applause rises to the ceiling, and the members of Voltron shoot each other looks. They haven’t even started yet and Lance already feels like this is the most in-sync the band has ever been; he feels so in tune with his bandmates that he could read their thoughts, that they’ve all got invisible strings making it impossible to stray from each other. The director puts the mic back in the stand and Lotor walks up to it, adjusting it higher up to his ridiculous height. He looks really good tonight, and Lance hates to think it but it’s just true. He’s wearing leather pants, which should look awful and tacky but instead look wet and waxy in the sexiest of all ways. His shirt is a deep purple, some stitching at his broad shoulders that look like epaulets, and he’s got knee-high boots. His hair falls beautifully down his back, down past his arched brows and his feline eyes and his fanged smile. Lance’s heart aches, looking at him, at this person who played him like a fool.

“Good evening,” Lotor says into the mic. “We are the Galra Empire – “ The crowd cheers. “And tonight we have a very special set for you. We do hope that you enjoy.”

Ezor, the redhead, has hooked up her violin to a special amp, grinning at Lotor in tottering stilettos. He waits for the room to go silent; he was always a master of precise timing. When everyone’s finally quiet, shifting and rustling in place, just waiting for the song, then he turns to his band. He counts them off under his breath.

The song starts with just violin and drums, a subtle melody and concentrated drum track, something that feels vaguely familiar. Ezor plucks out her notes, delicate fingers on the strings.

“Uh-oh, running out of breath but I, oh I, I got stamina,” Lotor sings, and Lance recognizes the song. “Uh-oh, running now, I close my eyes, well, oh, I got stamina.” His voice is high, and breathy, and very powerful.

“Damn it,” Hunk says. “And I loved this song before.”

“I don’t know it,” Keith says, and Lance almost smiles because that is _so_ Keith.

“It’s _The Greatest_ , by Sia,” Lance says. And it’s a fantastic cover – the melody is taken over by Ezor on the violin, which lends it a more sophisticated air than the original poppy cover. Narti and Acxa are barely doing anything on guitar and bass, basically just keeping rhythm. They’re not really needed. Ezor is doing the lion’s share of the music, and the crowd loves it.

“I’m free to be the greatest, I’m alive!” The crowd sings along, bopping in time with Lotor. He’s leaning into the mic, grinning that awful grin at them as he belts it out. “I’m free to be the greatest here tonight!”

Lance doesn’t miss the subtext. This is a pretty well-known gay anthem. And it’s called _The Greatest_. He stands there, arms crossed over his shoulders like a terrible imitation of a shield, and knows what Lotor is trying to tell him. _You will never find anyone better than me. You will never find a man better than me._ And it sinks home, the one time during the song that Lotor makes eye contact with Lance.

They lead up to the triumphant final chorus, Ezor moving her whole body with the force of her playing, and Lotor sings over her with truly fantastic vocals, somehow making that voice (which is so much more _masculine_ than Lance’s will ever be) reach those gripping heights. The crowd goes wild, cheering and stamping their feet.

And that’s when he looks down at Lance. Makes eye contact. Grins.

Lance’s stomach sinks to the floor. But God help him, he glares back.

As soon as they finish the song and the crowd cheers, Pidge whips around to face the rest of them. “We’re not panicking,” she says under her breath. “They sounded good but they’re not using their full instrumentation. The guitar and bass were just props, that’s not going to look good for the judges. Lotor’s voice isn’t right for the song, his timbre is all off.”

“That’s right, it was a blunder,” Allura says. “We’ve got his number, that’s not even a question.”

Lance feels himself sinking into the usual self-deprecation that comes with Lotor, all of the second-guessing and talking himself out of perfectly sound decisions. But Keith grabs his arm, forces him to look into his purple eyes.

“We’re gonna lick him,” he says, voice trembling with confidence. He’s on fire. “We’re gonna _lick_ him, Lance. Don’t think we won’t.”

Lance stares back. He probably looks like a deer in headlights, sweaty and wide-eyed in this dark room. “Okay,” is all he says. It’s all he needs to say. Keith grins.

The Galra Empire take a second to reset, and then Lotor is stepping back up to the mic and throwing a smile at Ezor. She grins back, sharp and bright, and then positions her violin again and plays a very familiar melody.

“Ugh,” Allura mutters.

“Wait, I’ve heard this song,” Keith says, sounding stunned.

It’s _Rather Be_ , and Lotor sings with a put-upon Scottish accent: “Oh, we’re a thousand miles from comfort, we have traveled land and sea. But as long as you are with me, there’s no place I’d rather be…”

Zethrid comes in, light and fast on the drums, lots of hi-hat and just a bit of bass. Once again Narti and Acxa are rendered almost useless; Narti continues to pluck out a simple bassline, while Acxa drops the guitar and picks up the tambourine. Lance has no idea what their play is; Acxa looks _bored_ , which is definitely not what you want your leader guitar to look like.

“If you gave me a chance, I would take it,” Lotor sings, enunciating every word, “it’s a shot in the dark, but I’ll make it! Know with all of your heart you can’t shame me; when I am with you there’s no place I’d rather be!”

Is Lotor playing all of these songs at Lance? Or is Lance just the most paranoid he’s ever been? Right now it feels like Lotor is trying his best to remind Lance that they dated, in a room full of people he never would’ve told while they were together. Ezor is a brilliant violinist, quick and sure and captivating on stage, dancing around like a gymnast while she carries the entire melody.

“They’re so poppy,” Keith says, almost inaudible under the crowd. “I didn’t expect them to be so Top 40.”

“It could be worse,” Hunk says. “Last year they played _Viva la Vida_ , like absolute douchebags.”

Keith’s sour-lemon-dogshit face makes clear what he thinks of _Viva la Vida,_ and Lance has to laugh.

“You’re such a hipster,” he says, and it’s so fond he’s pretty sure the judges in the back room can tell how gone he is for this kid. Keith rolls his eyes, flicking his bangs out of his face. They stand still, staring at each other in the middle of a room of dancing kids.

“When I am with you, there’s no place I’d rather be…” Lotor ends the song with a delicate vibrato and the crowd goes wild. Pidge claps so slowly and sarcastically that it’s actually more cutting than if she didn’t clap.

“They’re still not using the whole band,” Shiro says. “I don’t get it. Why even have a guitar and bass if they’re just going to stand there and let the violin do all the work?”

In the back of the room, the Voltron parents look similarly unimpressed. Matt has his head bent into his parents and is probably whispering the same kind of musical calculations Pidge has been doing all night.

“They’ve only got one song left,” Lance says. “It’s got to be a doozy.”

In retrospect, he should’ve been careful what he wished for.

As soon as Ezor starts playing the final song, Lance’s heart kicks up in his chest. It’s insanely fast, and driving, and dark, and it’s got Zethrid hammering on the drums.

“Put on your war paint,” Lotor sings, and the crowd bellows in response.

“Shit,” Pidge says.

“You are a brick tied to me that’s dragging me down, strike a match and I’ll burn you to the ground – “ Lotor stamps his feet in time with the songs, pale hands strangling the mic stand. “We are the jack-o-lanterns in July, setting fire to the sky, here comes this rising tide so _come on –_ “

Acxa’s playing now, jamming on her guitar, smile playing on her lips as she takes a power stance in her boots and thrums out a thrashing guitar part.

“What is this?” Lance asks, and it’s actually Keith who answers.

“ _The Phoenix,_ ” he says. “Fall Out Boy. I fucking _love_ this song.”

“That violin part – “

“It’s Shostakovich,” Pidge says, because of course. “It’s from Symphony No. 7. It’s a Russian symphony about World War II. The symphony’s all about war and death and fucking Russia.”

There’s no better band to play it. The violin, Lotor’s voice, Zethrid on the drums and Acxa on the guitar – this, Lance has now realized, is the whole point of their band. The first two songs were because they needed to fill a set. They’re just here to play _The Phoenix_ , and they are _crushing_ it.

“I’m going to change you, like a remix – then I’ll raise you, like a phoenix.” Lotor’s guttural right now, singing deep and low with all the power he can muster. His smile is feral. “Wearing all vintage misery – no, I think it looked a little better on me! I’m going to change you, like a remix, then I’ll raise you, like a phoenix – “

Everyone else drops off and Ezor plays just the violin part. When the drums come back, Zethrid is heavy-handed, and Shiro stiffens behind them. Shiro had the best drum set of all the bands, so he graciously agreed to donate them for use by the other bands tonight. He appears to be regretting that decision now.

They come to a final crashing conclusion, perfectly in sync, violent in their motions as Lotor screams about war paint. Ezor finishes with a final flourish of her bow, and the applause afterwards is deafening. Lance can’t even blame them. It was a gorgeous piece of musicianship. He shouldn’t have underestimated them.

“Damn it,” Keith mutters. Pidge is hissing in Allura’s ear, something about strings and _allegros_ and other shit Lance can’t understand. He watches Lotor, watches him bow and bask in the praise, not even giving any credit to his band, just smiling like he’s the greatest thing to ever happen to Garrison High.

He underestimated Lotor. But the good news is…

Lotor’s always underestimated him.

“We got this,” Lance says, and all of Voltron turns to him in the din.

He turns around, gives them a genuine smile. “Guys, come on. One good song? Against our three kick-ass songs? Psh. Not even a question.”

He’s not even scared. There’s lightning in his blood, neon in his bones. He wants to get up there on stage. He wants to show them what he’s made of. Show _Lotor_ what they’re made of. He wants for nothing more than to go up right now, kick the other two bands off stage and sing into that mic like it’s his last act on this earth.

“ _Hell_ yeah,” Pidge says. “We fucking _got_ this!”

Shiro rubs Lance’s shoulder, beaming down at him, and Lance grins and turns back to stage as the next band comes up. He can wait. It’ll be his turn before he knows it.

“Awesome, thanks so much to the Galra Empire,” says the director. Who _thanks_ the act that just went on? Lance decides to call this dude Dwight. He’s giving off strong Dwight vibes. “Next up we’ve got the Beatniks, so let’s give it up!”

The crowd cheers for the next band. They are the epitome of a hipster nightmare; every one of them is a white dude with a man bun and incipient beards on their tiny baby faces. Their outfits are a hideous combination of flannel, too-short black pants and Vans. One dude is holding a mandolin.

“Christ save me,” Pidge whispers.

“Hello, we’re the Beatniks,” says the lead singer, cradling the mic in his hands. “We hope that you have an inspiring evening, and that our music leads you to a deeper exploration of your own mortality and the necessity of questioning authority.”

Lance turns to Keith, wide-eyed, to find Keith equally mystified, holding back hysterical laughter.

“We’re going to be playing a selection for you tonight that expresses the best of underground music.” He’s got this really affected way of speaking, like he wants to sound breathy and poetic but really just sounds like a mansplaining asshole. “We feel that there’s a greater sentiment of true love and beauty in music that’s not played by capitalistic radio stations…that’s why we called ourselves the Beatniks, we wanted to express our desire for all of humanity to be united in truth and love and justice, without being separated by superficial things like borders and rules…nothing that could divide us, so we can all be as one, just like the beatniks of old wanted…”

“That’s not what the Beatniks wanted,” Allura says, without bothering to lower her voice. “Literally at all.”

Either the lead singer doesn’t hear her or chooses to ignore her. “Here we go,” he says mildly, and the band launches into some indie garbage that Lance not only doesn’t recognize, he doesn’t think it has words. They seem to be lacking a vocoder and are attempting to make up for it with their mouths. It’s really bad. They’re really bad. The mandolin player has clearly just bought the mandolin to look cool; he only knows how to play one chord, and he plays that single chord whenever he thinks the music needs it. The music never needs it.

Pidge spends the entirety of the set with her family, dissecting everything she hates about this band. Lance can hear some of the furious whispers through the breaks in music, and from what he can tell the Beatniks have offended Pidge personally. The rest of Voltron attempts to school their expressions into something other than disgust. Lance settles on polite disinterest and shows Keith memes on his phone to pass the time.

The crowd applauds politely for the Beatniks, who then give a rambling outro that lasts almost three minutes before Dwight grows a pair and ushers them off stage. “ _Thank you_ to the Beatniks,” he says, exhaustion in every line of his face. “Thank you. So much. Alright, give it up for Rabid Squirrel.”

Rabid Squirrel, if anything, is even more visually appalling than the Beatniks. One dude wears massive pants that could fit at least three people; one wears yellow pants and a green-orange shirt; their lone girl is wearing five different shirts, all of which come down to her knees; and the last person has a tennis visor and a toga.

“God bless America,” Hunk says.

“Whaddup, we’re Rabid fucking Squirrel,” the girl says right away into the mic, prompting Dwight to run up on stage and hiss at them about language.

“Sorry, the man says we can’t swear,” the girl says. She looks at the judge’s table and glares. “These are our songs about the fall of the patriarchy.”

“This could be good,” Pidge says.

It isn’t. Apparently ‘songs about the fall of the patriarchy’ are _Back Then_ by Mike Jones (rapped poorly), the ‘Numa Numa’ song from 2004 (sung in Romanian, very poorly) and a heavy metal version of _Baby One More Time_ (actually pretty decent). The girl, who Lance assumes is the leader of the band, ends the set with two middle fingers and some really graphic hip gyration. Pidge nods in admiration even as she’s dragged off the stage.

“Well, that was…something,” Dwight finishes. “Uh, give it up for Rabid Squirrel, everyone. Our last act of the night is Voltron!”

_Oh shit,_ Lance thinks. Those bands were so distracting he didn’t even think about performing. Now that he’s remembered, the anxiety has returned full force, sinking into his stomach.

He tries to take that nervousness and transform it; he’s the lead singer of a badass band, and they’re going to crush this shit, and he’s going to aria in Lotor’s stupid face and finally put to rest all of that bullshit.

He steps on stage.

 

* * *

 

 

There’s almost no time to be nervous once they get on stage, which Keith appreciates; they’re using so many different instruments than the other bands that they spend all their prep time getting mics hooked up and band instruments tuned. The crowd goes wild once Hunk starts tuning the tuba; Matt Holt wrestles his way to the front and stands there cheering loudly, right up front. When Keith’s finished getting his trumpet set up, the crowd is clearly restless, ready for them to go on. Shiro comes out from behind the drums and they all gravitate towards him.

He smiles at them calmly, a balm on Keith’s pumping heart. “We got this, guys,” he says simply. “Let’s bring it home.”

As one, they put their hands in the center. Keith grins around at his band as they raise their hands.

“ROAR!”

As the crowd cheers, responding to their energy and the badass sight of four band instruments lining up around microphones, Keith’s eyes are on Lance. The rest of the songs can almost be carried by the band – but this one, _Sorry Not Sorry_ , there’s nothing for Lance to hide behind. The entirety of this song rests on Lance’s vocals. Keith’s getting flashbacks to the terrible party, Lance’s voice cracking halfway through. He can feel Lotor more than he can see him, a haunting in the crowd that’s targeting their lead singer.

Lance doesn’t seem concerned, though. He’s adjusting the mic to his height, coughing in it, easy and assured. When he leans in to say, “Good evening” with a silky voice, the crowd goes wild.

“How ya’ll doing tonight?” He says, and gets a massive cheer in response. “Awesome, glad to hear it! We are Voltron – “ The marching band cheers, and Lance grins that feline grin. “We’ve got some fans, sweet. We’ve got a couple of songs for you tonight and we hope you like that. If you recognize any, feel free to sing along.”

With that, he turns back to the band and grins. Keith flicks his eyes over them all, hands poised on their instruments. His heart’s thumping so loud he can feel it against his ribcage. They’re doing this. They’re really doing this.

With a nod from Lance, Shiro starts the countoff.

Hunk starts in on the tuba bassline, thick and perfect, filling the walls of the tiny room. Matt starts whooping in the front row. Keith watches Lance, feeling so terrified he’s worried he’s going to pass out, everything rests on this boy and his voice and how he can overcome, if he can’t sing this then there’s no point, they might as well go home, it’s all up to him –

“Now I’m out here looking like revenge, feeling like a ten, the _best_ I ever been – “

Lance’s voice is pure honey, pure power; crooning into the microphone like it’s his one job on this earth. Keith had nothing to worry about, he realizes as his anxiety evaporates and leaves behind a light-headed glee; this is the best Lance has _ever_ sounded.

“And yeah I know how bad it must hurt to see me like this, but it gets worse.” He looks directly at Lotor, leans his body in to make it look like he’s singing to the crowd. “Now you’re out here looking like regret, ain’t too proud to beg, second chance you’ll never get, and yeah I know how bad it must hurt to see me like this, but it gets worse!”

Allura and Pidge come in, building up the music, layering on top of Hunk. Allura’s got the piano part on piccolo and Pidge has got the melody on tenor sax, and together it’s a fantastic combination, totally unlike all the other bands. They’re sharing a microphone for this one and having the time of their lives, bopping in time and playing into the crowd. Shiro keeps them on time with heavy clicks and bass lines, and all of it is building up to Keith’s intro on the trumpet.

“Baby I’m sorry!” Lance trills, and without any prompting the crowd sings “I’m not sorry!” along with the instruments. “Baby I’m sorry!” He screams, his eyes alight, one hand clenched in a fist. “Being so bad got me feelin’ so good, showing you up like I knew that I would!”

Lotor looks less than pleased with this turn of events, arms crossed and a scowl on his face. Lance looks him right in the eyes, fucking leaning in with the mic in his arms while he does the “Talk that talk, baby, walk that walk, baby” intro. Keith finds himself unable to focus on his own intro, he’s so desperate to hear this boy sing, desperate to hear him hit this note and show them all what he’s made of, and it’s coming up and he’s going to do it, his voice is climbing, he’s almost there - 

“Better walk, better walk that walk, baby - “

Lance throws his head back and belts it, hits the note perfectly and then some, soaring up and up and up to octaves Keith didn’t even know he could get to. The crowd goes absolutely apeshit, almost drowning out the rest of Voltron with their screaming. Keith makes eye contact with Allura and Pidge while they’re playing the melody, sees them grinning and ecstatic, completely soaring on Lance’s vocals. He holds the note until his lungs give out, and then the crowd does nothing but cheer him on through the end of the song. Keith wails on his trumpet towards the end, just a little trill to end them out, and the resulting cheer is louder than it’s been for any band since Lotor’s. Lance does a special bow for the cheering crowd and then turns back to the band. His face is flushed and he’s heaving for breath and Christ, Keith loves him.

“You _guys_ ,” is all he says.

“We sounded so good,” Hunk says, like a little kid, grinning under the tuba.

“Let’s keep it going, come on,” Allura says. “Crush _What’s My Age Again_ and we’ll be back for _Born to Run_!”

Everyone puts away their band instruments and switches to rock, Allura and Pidge helping with mics and amps and plug-ins. They don’t want to lose the attention of the crowd, so time is of the essence. The girls give them each a kiss and then jump down into the sweaty crowd, right next to Matt. Keith plays an experimental chord on the guitar and listens to the crowd cheer in response. He looks over at them, Hunk back on bass, Lance on the mic, Shiro grinning at the drums. His toes are right next to grinning students, hovering over the crowd, and he can see his dad smiling in the back of the room, silently cheering him on.

He locks eyes with Lance, who nods. It’s all him.

Keith’s so fucking ready.

The crowd starts cheering as soon as he starts the intro, and it’s the greatest feeling in the world. Hunk comes in on the bassline and Shiro backs him up on the high hat, a full and complete sound. Lance gives an exaggerated cough into the mic and sings,

“I took her out, it was a Friday night; I wore cologne, to get the feeling right – “

This song isn’t really about Lance’s vocals, but he’s still killing it, just the right amount of angst and insolence to really sell the song. Keith’s just thrilled at the chance to thrash, to hammer on this guitar until his arm hurts, to watch Hunk killing the bassline and Shiro having a blast on the drums.

“And that’s about the time she walked away from me!” Lance ft. the Audience sings. “Nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three! And I’m sill more amused by TV shows – what the hell is ADD? My friends say I should act my age – what’s my age again? What’s my age again?”

The second verse is actually hilarious; when Lance sings “And that’s about the time that _bitch_ hung up on me,” the crowd actually laughs, because his facial expression is so funny. He’s absolutely buoyant tonight, bouncing around with the mic and dancing in front of the crowd, young and sexy in his black pants and boots. He calms down for the instrumental breakdown, standing off to the side while Keith and Hunk and Shiro take the bridge. Keith’s completely in tune with the other guys, and them with him; he feels like he could play any song in the world and they’d be right behind him. There’s a mic in front of him, set up so he could sing. He’s too concentrated on playing the bridge, looking down at his guitar as his fingers shape the chords, but he actually gets the wild thought that he might like to sing. He knows the words to every one of these songs; why shouldn’t he?

But he keeps playing, keeps his head down, and soon enough Lance is back on the mic leading them through the final refrain. “And that’s about the time she walked away from me – nobody likes you when you’re twenty-three!” Shay’s in the front row, screaming for Hunk, who’s grinning as he absolutely shreds this bassline, fingers quick and sure. “With many years ahead to fall in line – why would you wish that on me? I never want to act my age – what’s my age again? Come on, everybody – what’s my age again? _What’s my age again?_ ”

Lance gets the crowd in on it, everyone screaming along with him, Pidge and Allura in the front row singing louder than anyone, all their fear and irreverence screamed into this shitty little coffeeshop. Keith can’t even see Lotor over the crowd, can’t hear him over their shared joy, like he doesn’t even matter anymore. When they drive to a crashing breakdown, Shiro pushing them faster and harder with fiercely timed cymbal crashes, Keith can’t think of anything else that’s not his band and his friends and the way they look on stage.

Allura and Pidge barrel back on stage to scream and jump with them, hugging them, sweaty bodies pressed to sweaty bodies. Keith can’t stop grinning, his cheeks hurting with it, and sneaks a look over at Lance. He’s taking deep pulls of water, Adam’s apple bobbing with it, but when he sees Keith his eyes crinkle up in a smile. There’s no a single drop of nervousness left. This contest is theirs for the taking.

And they’ve got the perfect last song to do it.

Allura barely pulls the keyboard out before the crowd starts cheering. She grins in response, winking as she plugs it in. Pidge sets her sax up again, clipping it into her harness and licking at the reed. Keith looks out in the crowd for Lotor, sees him and the band standing by the coffee counter. Lotor’s face is pinched and tight. Keith gives him a flippant grin, toeing at his pedals.

“Everyone ready?” Lance calls.

“Born ready!” Hunk says.

“That’s my boy! Alright Voltron, one song glory, let’s get it done!”

They all whoop in response. Lance fingerguns Shiro, who gives a grin and comes down on the drums.

That opening guitar riff has never sounded so good; Keith’s guitar is clear and beautiful. He can see his dad cheering in the back and they haven’t even made it out of the intro. Just like that first time, the music presses against the walls, Allura’s keys and Pidge’s sax and Hunk’s bass all layering up. Lance is bright-eyed when he steps up to the mic.

“In the day we sweat it out on the streets of a runaway American dream…”

People know this song; that’s all Keith can think as he sees people sing along. They might not know all of the words, but these high school students are all dancing and singing along. Keith, Pidge and Lance make up the first line on stage, the ones right in the front, so they can see them grooving, shaking shoulders and jumping up and down. It only gets better as they lead into the chorus, as Lance’s gritty, gravelly voice brings them up –

“It’s a death trap, it’s a suicide rap, we gotta get out while we’re young, cause tramps like us – “

“Baby we were born to run!” The whole crowd sings, and Keith’s smile bursts on his face.

Allura and Keith are perfectly in sync on the bridge, guitar and piano singing out the riff, and he makes eye contact from where she’s standing and jamming out. She grins back. It’s a beautiful part and she’s killing it, with Pidge layering over it with gorgeous warm tones and Hunk and Shiro backing it up. Lance’s foot taps the whole way through, dropping his hands from the mic to gesture as he sings.

“ _Ohh_ , will you walk with me out on the wire? Cause baby I’m just a scared and lonely rider, but I gotta know how it feels – “

They’re coming up on Pidge’s solo and she starts inching forward, a smile on her face even through her mouthpiece. Keith’s heart slams in excitement for her.

“I want to know if love is real – baby I wanna know if love is real – “

She reaches forward for the mic.

“Oh, can you show me?” Lance croons, and then yells and jumps back.

Pidge bursts forward, her solo fierce and wild, and a massive cheer rises up. Her fingers fly over the keys, leaning forward and in with her eyes closed and hair wild, smacking one of her Docs against the ground. Matt Holt in the front row is screaming like the biggest fanboy of all time. She was born for this, Keith says, barely remembering to keep playing because all he wants to do is watch her.

When her solo ends and she steps back, Keith nudges her and gives a quick thumb’s up. She grins back, and Lance runs back up to the mic for the final bridge. Keith loves this part; he loves the gentle, rumbling way Lance sings this, the genuine emotion in his voice.

“Beyond the Palace, hemi-powered drones scream down the boulevard – girls comb their hair in rearview mirrors and boys try to look so hard,” Lance sings with a self-deprecating smile. “The amusement park rises bold and stark, kids are huddled on the beach in the mist. I wanna die with you Wendy on the streets tonight in an ever-lasting kiss – _huh!_ ”

The breakdown is Keith’s time to shine, pushing his fingers to the limit trying to keep up. The girls just beneath him scream and slap the stage, and he thinks, _Shit, I’m a rockstar._ Lance grins at him from where he’s dancing by the mic, and Allura nods. Pidge leads the melody as the instrumentalists all climb up the scale together and then back down, a perfectly orchestrated breakdown with Shiro’s cymbals as the benchmarks keeping them in time. At the very end they hold the last note, waiting for Lance to count them in. Shiro plays rolls on the cymbals and Hunk’s fingers pluck out rapid-fire notes, Allura does runs up and down the keyboard and Keith keeps strumming until his wrist hurts and Pidge has been holding her note for so long her face is going red and Lance waits until the crowd is at a fever pitch before he runs up to the mic and screams,

“One-two-three-four!”

They all slam back in and Lance’s voice jumps an octave. “The highway’s jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive!” He belts. This song is nothing but pure triumph now. “Everybody’s out on the run tonight but there’s no place left to hide! Together Wendy, we can live with the sadness, I’ll love you with all the madness in my soul – “

Keith watches Lance, heart aching, and suddenly can’t stop himself. He leans forward on the mic and joins in.

“ _Ohh,_ somebody girl, I don’t know when – “ Lance’s head whips around when he hears the new voice, and his whole face lights up. Keith blushes but Lance just laughs, singing out, “We’re gonna get to that place where we really wanna go and we’ll walk in the sun, but till then, tramps like us, baby we were born to run!”

Lance pumps his fists on ‘tramps like us’, the simple staccato of it, and the crowd catches on immediately, all of them punching the air when they run it back.

“Oh honey, tramps like us, baby we were born to run!” A whole sea of people, singing and throwing their hands out in complete unison.

“Let’s go Garrison, tramps like us, baby we were born to run!” Lance sings, getting a cheer in response. He holds one finger up behind his back, telling them all one more time, and puts his whole body into the last line –

“ _Tramps like us,_ baby we were born to run!”

Finally he steps away from the mic, letting the rest of Voltron close it out, Allura leading them out on the piano as she headbangs her way through the riff. Lance sings a couple more times, wordless triumph in his voice, and when they all hit the final note together, Keith feels his exhausted fingers and his sweaty hair and his tired shoulders and wants to live in this moment forever.

Shiro’s final cymbal fades off and barely one second later the whole of Voltron has crashed into each other in the middle of stage, saxophones and guitars and basses still strapped to each other, a crush of sweaty bodies laughing and jumping and cheering. “We _killed_ it!” Keith screams and doesn’t care about being self-conscious. “Oh my God, we were amazing!”

“We changed the world!” Lance yells, his hands hot and slick where they grip tight to Keith’s t-shirt. “Human civilization as we know it will never be the same!”

“Guys,” Allura says, and her voice is full of tears. “That was the best last Voltron performance I could have ever asked for.”

As one they all collapse into her, hands petting and hugging every inch of her they can find. “Voltron would be nowhere without our princess,” Hunk says.

“And our wise and bold commander, Takashi Shirogane!” Pidge says.

“Well, Voltron wouldn’t be anything without – “

“Can you leave the stage? Please?” Dwight says.

Lance bursts out laughing, and they finally vacate the stage into the arms of their cheering family members. Allura rushes to Coran, Pidge is enveloped by the Holts and Hunk by the Garretts, Shiro gets a hug from his very sweet grandfather, and Keith – Keith runs over to his dad, gives him the tightest hug he can muster.

“I’m _so_ proud,” Rick says, gripping him tight. “Keith, you were amazing. I’m _so_ proud.”

“Thanks, Dad,” he says, face pressed to his dad’s chest.

“ _So_ proud. You guys were better than the other bands, by a country mile. Easily the best musicians here. I’m not just saying that.”

“You might be,” he says with a grin, “cause you’re my dad and all.”

“I’m not!” Rick says, indignant. “You guys were the best, hand to God!”

Honestly, Keith had almost forgotten until this moment that this is a competition. The thought of competing for this was so far out of his mind during the performance; there was nothing but the music and his band. It comes rushing back now, just enough to make him nervous, but not enough to rattle him.

They played a kick-ass show. Even if they don’t win, even if Lotor takes the crown again, it’ll be enough. Keith can hang on his hat on Voltron and the music they made.

They reconvenes back up front, with all the other bands. As Pidge extracts herself from her hugging family members, she feels another tug on her sleeve. It’s Toni, from prom, changed out of her dress and into a _Led Zeppelin_ t-shirt and gray jeans. She smiles at Pidge, curly brown hair falling all over her pretty face.

“You were amazing up there!” She says.

“Thanks,” Pidge says, blazed out on adrenaline, cheeks flushed. “Holy shit, thanks so much for coming. I love your shirt. I loved your dress too but I love the shirt. _When the Levee Breaks_ is my badass walking song.”

Toni grins, small and fierce. “Seriously, I love that song, I can play the drum part – “

“You play drums?”

“ _Pidgeon_!” Lance screams. “Get your gay ass over here!”

Toni looks over at her, eyebrows raised hopefully, but Pidge is already getting pulled away. She sends her biggest smile over her shoulder and then gets pulled in with her band, just as Dwight steps back up to the mic and clears his throat.

“Alright, alright, I know we’ve all had a great night, lots of great music and stuff, um. But I know we’re all excited to get home – “

“Read the room dude, we’re ready to party all night,” Keith whispers in Lance’s ear, and Lance laughs and leans into him.

“So I’ve talked with the judges, and they want me to say how, uh, great everybody was…lots of really good bands here…”

Keith could strangle Dwight, could fucking _kill_ him, just say who won for God’s sake –

“But, you know, this is a competition, so there can only be one, uh, winner, you know…”

Shiro’s teeth grinds but he doesn’t say anything. His hand is tight in Allura’s.

“So, we’re gonna do the second place winner first, so, uh, yeah…everybody give it up…”

Keith grabs Lance’s hand and _squeezes_.

“For the Galra Empire!”

“Oh my God,” Allura says. “Oh my God – “

The cheers are already starting when Dwight announces, “Which means the winner tonight is Voltron!”

Keith’s screaming before he even realizes it, the sound bursting out of him like something primal. Shiro picks Allura right off the ground and kisses her, planting one right on her smiling mouth, and Hunk pushes them all up on stage where Dwight is standing with a stiff smile and the crappy plastic trophy that the school gets at a party supply store.

They spill up the steps, pushing their way to the front of the instruments, and Shiro reaches out and shakes Dwight’s hand and accepts the trophy. He holds it up in front of the crowd, and every member of Voltron reaches up to touch it (Pidge standing on her tiptoes), and Keith looks out over the screaming, clapping, cheering crowd, heart floating light and free in his chest. He can’t stop grinning, and they fucking _won_ , and Lotor is looking sour and sullen in the corner, because _Lance_ , fucking Lance lead them to this. He overcame everything, all those bad memories, all the self-doubt and fear and hurt, to deliver three badass songs right in the face of his abusive ex. Lance is electric, glowing with pride, cheering and dancing on the other side of the trophy from Keith, and suddenly that’s much too far away.

Keith reaches out, grabs Lance’s arm and draws him over. Lance stumbles across, a question in his eyebrows, happy smile on his face, and Keith just –

Grabs him by the waist and kisses him.

It’s the only thing that feels right.

Dimly, he recognizes other things that aren’t Lance’s lips, warm and soft against his own – Pidge’s gasp of shock, Hunk saying “Oh my God”, the crowd cheering even harder – but when he looks back on it, Lance is all he remembers. For a moment it’s awful, he’s just kissing a motionless Lance, and Keith prepares for some miserable heartbreak on top of this amazing night. But Lance does what he always does.

He kisses back, just as hard.

And Keith’s first kiss goes just like this – hot, and sweaty, and with a little bit too much clacking of teeth and slobbering of tongues, hands roaming all over each other, in front of about 150 people (including his dad) in a shitty coffeeshop in Long Beach with the most gorgeous boy in the world. It’s fucking _perfect_.

Lance finally pulls away, his lips shiny with spit. “Keith,” he whispers, eyes suspiciously bright, “I’ve wanted to do that for _so long_.”

“Really?” Keith says in total disbelief.

“You goddamn idiot,” Lance says, and rushes forward to kiss him again.

“I _can’t_ ,” Hunk says. “I thought I wanted this and now it’s happening in front of me and I was wrong.”

“You love it,” Pidge says.

“Of course I do, God, shut up.”

Keith pulls away this time, just to look at Lance, find him soft and smiling and giddy. He leans his forehead in, pressing himself close, and Lance darts forward to press a kiss onto his nose.

“Can we please limit the PDA on stage,” Dwight says into the microphone.

In response, Shiro dips Allura low and kisses her too. Hunk reaches into the crowd, pulls Shay up and kisses her. Toni pushes her way through the crowd, clambers up on stage, and grabs a startled, wide-eyed Pidge.

“Can I?” She asks breathlessly, and Pidge is barely nodding before Toni is planting a kiss on her. Keith has to pull away to cheer for that one.

“I hate teenagers,” Dwight sighs into the mic.

Keith can hear Coran laughing from the audience, and when he turns to look he sees his dad standing back with all the rest of the parents. He makes eye contact and his dad gives a massive thumb’s up, grinning all the while. The McClains cheer, and Keith has to blush, ducking his face into Lance’s neck while trying to convince himself this isn’t a dream, all of his dreams haven’t just come true in one night.

“We’re gonna be okay, babe,” Lance whispers in his ear, rubbing a thumb across his back. Keith believes him.

The crowd is still cheering, their yells taking on a rhythm, a chant. Keith focuses in to figure it out and hears the word – “Encore! Encore! Encore!”

“They want an encore,” Allura says, dazed.

Lance’s eyes light up, and he turns to Pidge, who is gripping tight to Toni while looking totally baffled about how they got there. Toni is a solid foot taller than her, so it’s a pretty amazing picture. Lance whispers something in Pidge’s ear, and she lights up and nods. She goes up on full tiptoes to peck Toni’s cheek, and then dashes off for something in her sax case.

Lance makes his way over to the rest of Voltron, whispering something in each of their ears, prompting an array of nods and Shay to say, “I _love_ that song!” He makes his way to Dwight and very dramatically drops to his knees, holding his clasped hands above him, and Dwight holds out for barely a second before he’s waving his hand and heading off stage. Keith stands in confusion, watching everyone grab their rock band instruments again, but when he sees Pidge pulling out a harmonica, suddenly everything is crystal clear.

Lance beams at him when he walks back up to the mic, prompting a fresh wave of cheering. Keith plugs his guitar back in, slings the strap over his shoulder. “One more song?” He says into the mic, and the cheers are all the answer they need.

They wait until everyone quiets down, all standing by their instruments for the couple seconds it takes for the cheers to stop. Pidge steps up to her mic, makes eye contact with Allura and then counts them off, mouthing ‘One, two, three, four’ under her breath.

And then there it is, the harmonica part that’s been hooked in Keith’s heart since the first moment he heard it – haunting and hopeful, backed by Allura’s beautiful musicbox piano. Pidge closes her eyes while she plays, pulling out gorgeous notes that fill the Turquoise Hippo with warmth and pride. She holds the last note and then steps away, just in time for Lance to step back up.

“Screen door slams…Mary’s dress waves. Like a vision she dances across the porch as the radio plays…”

His voice is nothing but gravel after the whole night of screaming and singing, and it’s fucking amazing. He sounds so good with the piano, he and Allura looking at each other and grinning as she leads them through, just the two of them. It’s an amazing juxtaposition from the whole band songs of earlier, just simple, a gorgeous voice and a storytelling piano.

“Don’t run back inside, darling, you know just what I’m here for,” Lance croons, one hand on the mic, leaning on it. “So you’re scared and you’re thinking that maybe we ain’t that young anymore. Show a little faith, there’s magic in the night – “ He looks at Keith and winks as he says this next part: “You ain’t a beauty but hey, you’re alright…”

Keith scoffs, totally unoffended, and Lance undercuts it when he blows him a kiss before jumping back in. “Oh, and that’s alright with me – “

Keith comes in on the guitar, beautiful gangling chords that come as easily as if he’d been playing them for years. Hunk starts in on the bassline and Shiro on the drums, the whole band coming back together like they’d never been apart. The couple people in the crowd who recognize it are clapping along – mostly Voltron’s parents and guardians – but most of them are unfamiliar with the song, looking up at them with curious eyes. Keith can’t wait to be the first one to show them this song.

“You can hide ‘neath your covers and study your pain, make crosses from your lovers, throw roses in the rain – “ Lance sings, his voice gaining momentum. “Waste your summer praying in vain, for a savior to rise from these streets – “

Keith wasn’t going to again, wasn’t going to ruin Lance’s vocals with his own shitty ones, but once again as they come into the chorus he can’t help it. Neither can Pidge; the sax part doesn’t come in until later, so she jumps up on the last mic and the three of them build to the climax together.

“Hey, what else can we do now? Except roll down your window and let the wind blow back your hair! Well, the night’s busting open, these two lanes will take us anywhere – “ They sing, and it doesn’t really sound that great except that it also sounds amazing. Lance grins, throws his arms out to drum up screams from the audience for the new singers. God, he’s such an amazing guy. And they’re _together_ now, to do anything they want, go anywhere they want; hit the road and chase that chance, like this song is about.

“Well, I got this guitar and I learned how to make it talk – “ Lance points at Keith, who plays the guitar breakdown to enthusiastic claps. “And my car’s out _back_ , if you’re ready to talk that loooooong walk – “ Lance’s voice warbles like a bird on ‘long’, and Keith’s in love. Lance closes his eyes and sings, bleeds his whole self on the stage.

“And I know you’re lonely for words that I ain’t spoke – tonight we’ll be free, all the promises will be broken – “

“There were ghosts in the eyes of all the boys you sent away,” Keith and Pidge join in. The crowd has pulled out their lit phone screens and started waving them like cigarette lighters, and Shiro laughs from behind them. It almost sets Keith off. “They haunt this dusty beach road in the skeleton frames of burned-out Chevrolets –  They scream your name at night in the street, your graduation gown lies in rags at their feet – “

They’re building up to the best part; Keith’s fingers hurt from playing and he’s sure he’s missed some notes, but it’s all too good. Allura’s piano is still driving them in the background and Pidge has to drop off to get her sax ready, but it’s okay, because Lance has got this.

“So Mary, climb in,” Lance sings, and Allura does a stunning piano run. “It’s a town full of losers,” he takes a deep breath, leans in on the mic like he’s kissing it, “and I’m pullin’ outta here to _win!_ ”

The crowd erupts at the last note, the way he’s holding it with his whole face scrunched up. Shiro lays down the drum solo to bring them into the outro and Pidge arrives back on the sax, legs braced in the front row as she wails. Lance steps back and lets Hunk walk forward, all of the instrumentalists keeping eye contact as they bring the song to its gorgeous conclusion, the piano taking all of the credit, all of the glory. Keith darts his eye out, tries to look for Lotor and doesn’t see him. What he does see is his dad, and his school, and his band. Lotor is a leaf on the wind for all he cares.

They go into one more breakdown, Allura leading them through with her nimble fingers doing the high trills, and Lance walks back up on the mic.

“We have been Voltron!” He says over the music, and the crowd cheers in response. “Thank you guys so much for coming out tonight and for showing us so much love! You guys were the best audience we could’ve ever asked for!”

He claps, bowing down to the audience who clap back. The rest of Voltron keeps playing, keep the breakdown going.

“We’ll see you next year when we take Rockfest again!” Lance declares, and the audience whoops. He’s right in front of the lights, a gorgeous dark silhouette for Keith to look at when he spreads his chest wide, brings the mic to his mouth.

There’ll be time, Keith thinks. There’ll be time for beach nights and movie marathons, graduations and birthdays, spring marching and summer shenanigans, endless hours with his favorite people in the world. There’ll be time to kiss Lance, to learn his favorite food, to spend long nights playing board games with his parents and watching movies with Rick. There’ll be time to hold him in the ocean where he’s happiest, to kiss him with salt on his lips and moonlight in his eyes.

“Until then,” Lance says, “thank you and goodnight!”

While the crowd screams, Lance turns to Keith and only Keith. He gives him a soft little smile, and Keith smiles back, forms chords with his left hand and keeps strumming with his right.

They’ll have all the time in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYY
> 
> It's finally done! This last chapter - the whole story really, but definitely the last chapter - was a labor of love in the midst of everything else going on in my life. So I very much appreciate patience while I got this out.
> 
> I have no new links for you, but if you do look up one song from this chapter (besides the Springsteen), I would definitely recommend The Phoenix by Fall Out Boy if you don't know it. It's a really sick song, and I could definitely see Lotor playing it.
> 
> Lastly, I want to say THANK YOU. For reading, kudosing, commenting, all of it means the world to me. This started as just a horrible trash idea and I did not expect the response this got, so thank you to you all for coming on this journey with me. I would love to hear your final thoughts <3
> 
> I will hopefully be back with more fanfiction in the near future - but until we meet again, good night, my dearest friends :)
> 
> -PVB
> 
> Lyrics for the chapter title from Thunder Road by Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band


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